Desdemona's Children
by A. Silver Rose
Summary: NOW COMPLETE! Duncan and Methos find themselves at odds over the guardian of an infant Immortal. Rated for intense situations and semi-graphic violence. Please read & review!
1. Prologue

Duncan MacLeod, Joe Dawson, Methos, and the Highlander concept all belong to Davis/Panzer Productions. I'm only borrowing them for a while, and I'm making no money off this.  
  
All other characters are of my own creation. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is unintended.   
  
I strongly urge reader discretion due to the sensitive and controversial nature of one of the subplots. Parents of young readers should view this story first before allowing their children to do so.  
  
A.S.R.  
  
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
  
for Jayde  
  
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
  
Desdemona's Children  
  
Prologue: "It is the cause, my soul . . ."  
  
- Othello, Act V, scene ii, line 1  
  
Youngstown, Ohio, 1973  
  
The clouds kept the stars from lighting the sky that August night, and an unseasonable cool had settled in. Weather predictions announced an impending series of thunderstorms coming in from the west. Not an ideal setting, to be sure, but suitable enough for the two men's somber mood. They each kept to themselves as they walked together down the street of the middle-class neighborhood. Their disparate attire suggested polar opposites, yet they were clearly well acquainted.   
  
The shorter of the two had his fists stuffed in the outer pockets of his army camouflage jacket. His jaw was clenched in stubborn tightness, and he cast steel-gray, narrow-set eyes downward in sullen thought. He wore his dark blond hair in a military crew cut, a style he kept ever since he was freed from that prison in 'Nam.  
  
His companion, on the other hand, dressed with the care of a dandified fop. He donned his best polyester suit, the one that matched the sky blue of his eyes, a navy-colored shirt with silver-toned buttons and a large collar, and his white overcoat. Before going out, he made sure that his pale blond hair fell in carefully arranged curls to his shoulders. He originally planned on an evening with whatever lady caught his eye at the local nightclub, but he realized the importance of being with his friend tonight. He knew the younger man would need his support.  
  
"Are you sure you are making the right decision, David?"  
  
This was asked in a light Dutch accent, and the man in the camouflage coat didn't hesitate to respond.  
  
"I have to tell her."  
  
"But she hasn't seen you in more than a year. Will she understand the change that has occurred within you?"  
  
They stopped at a street corner, and the man in the camouflage coat adjusted the cuffs on his uniform pants, stuffing them into his black combat boots. "She's my wife, for better or for worse."  
  
Johann Vandenberg gave his student a glance filled with dismay. It was typical of the judgmental young man to look at things in terms of black and white, right or wrong. Johann knew better. Life was too short, even for those such as he and his pupil, to not take things as they come. His own teacher taught him long ago to see not only the various shades of gray, but every color of the rainbow. He doubted the same would ever be said of David Burke.  
  
He found Burke not long after the latter's discharge from the American armed forces. Not a good thing, to have one's first death in a prisoner-of-war camp, to say nothing of the mental anguish that afflicted not only Burke but many other Vietnam veterans. Johann had seen that too many times, young soldiers who could not get war out of their minds even after the fighting was supposed to be done. He had the feeling that David was an open, caring young man once, but that man had all but disappeared.  
  
"That may not matter," Johann counseled, his hand on his friend's shoulder. "She might not be able to handle your Immortality. You could lose her, David."  
  
"Melissa's not like that." Burke met his teacher's eyes with an almost fierce resolution. "She would never betray me, or our marriage vows."  
  
Johann solemnly shook his head. "It takes more than faithfulness, David," he cautioned. "Your Melissa will have a lot to face, and she will need courage and strength to face it."  
  
A rare, but cold, smile from Burke. "She has that, and more. She was living alone for almost a year, teaching English to Vietnamese villagers when we met. She even took care of the twins by herself for the first seven months of their lives. Now, I'll be able to take care of them with her."  
  
"Twins?" Despite his rising worry, Johann tried to speak with a tone of light interest. "You did not tell me about your wife's children."  
  
Burke's response was almost defensive. "You mean our children. Melissa gave birth six months after I was captured."  
  
"Is that so?" Johann didn't like this turn of events at all.  
  
"Yeah. She didn't even tell me she was pregnant before she left 'Nam. When she finally wrote me about them, she said that she didn't want me to worry."  
  
Johann's heart filled with dread. He did not want young David to lose the last bit of normality that he clung to, yet if he remained silent, any sense of security that his student had would be a false one. He drew in a deep breath. "D-David . . ." he stammered, "your t-twins . . . I thought I had told you . . ."  
  
Burke met his teacher's apprehensive gaze head on. "Tell me what?"  
  
"Immortals . . . we . . . we cannot have children."  
  
The impact of Johann's announcement was immediate; the last vestiges of David's hope vanished in an flash. "You can't mean that!" the younger man hissed in disbelief.  
  
Panic seized Johann, then. Not only did David view the world in extremely concrete terms, his violent tendencies erupted whenever he was confronted by something which didn't fit that view. Such was the case when Johann told him he was Immortal; Johann received some broken ribs, a busted arm, and a punctured lung as a result. Johann dreaded the possibility of one day feeling the full impact of his student's ire. He knew that day had come.  
  
"David, please . . ."  
  
A swish of material, and Burke has his sword in hand. A deadly chill raced through Johann's veins. The blade was one of the heavier pieces of his collection, a single-handed broadsword that Johann felt would serve David well. He should have known that it would serve David well against him.  
  
"You lie."  
  
As he ground out those two words, Burke gripped the sword tightly in both hands and swung wide. Johann had no time to regret taking Burke on as a pupil, he had no time to reconsider saying words he knew had to be said. He had no time for anything.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Bolts of lightning ripped through the air, close enough to the house to cause Melissa to jump out of her skin. She jumped again as everything suddenly went dark. She lifted the curtain of the nursery window and peeked outside, just in time to catch the last of the vicious display. The lightning must have hit a power line, plunging the whole neighborhood into blackness. She wondered what the TV news would have to say about the storm.   
  
She let her hand fall from the curtain and turned her brown-eyed gaze to her babies. Huddled together in their crib, they slept through the storm, thank goodness. David would see them for the first time tonight. He was under the impression that he had fathered them. She knew that she should have told David about finding Anthony and Anastasia shivering together outside the local Catholic church last January. But it was the thought of being their father that kept David sane during his six-month ordeal in the Army psych ward. When he finally received his discharge last month, he wrote her to say that he was looking forward to having a normal life with her and the babies. Melissa dreaded what the truth would do to him, but because of an emergency hysterectomy last year, children of their own were an impossibility.  
  
A solitary tear slipped from the corner of her eye and trailed down her cheek. She didn't wipe it away. "I'm so lucky to have found the two of you," she whispered to her babies. "I don't know what I would have done without you."  
  
Tucking a lock of black hair behind her ear, she left the window and walked around the foot of the crib to an oak dresser. She pulled the top drawer open and fished inside it until she found the candle and matches she kept there in case of an emergency. She lit the candle and secured it in its holder, which she sat next to a wooden music box on top of the dresser. As the candle permeated the room with its soft glow, Melissa picked up the music box. It was a wedding gift from David. She loved the ornate scrollwork carved on the sides of the box as well as the portrait of the Madonna on the slightly-curved lid. She turned the knob on the back of the box and lifted the lid. Schubert's "Ave Maria" filled the air. Her favorite song. She hummed along as she carried the music box across the room and sat down in the cushioned rocking chair.  
  
"Melissa!! Where are you, you slut?!"  
  
David's voice sliced into her thoughts like a knife, and Melissa involuntarily leapt from the chair, letting the music box tumble to the floor. She heard the front door slam open and shut downstairs. David's rage was evident. What had him so incensed? The instant that question formed itself in her mind, Melissa feared she already knew the answer. Somehow, David had found out about the twins.  
  
Unaware of Melissa's panic, David's voice resonated throughout the house. "Just wait 'til I get my hands on you, bitch!"  
  
Whirling so that she faced the doorway, Melissa moved in front of the crib. Let David do what he wished to her. If he wanted to hurt her babies, though, he'd have another thing coming.  
  
She began to instinctively wring her hands the moment he appeared in the doorway. The murderous look in his eyes sent chills throughout her entire body, and she forcibly steeled herself to face the full brunt of his wrath.  
  
His next words came out in an icy, deadly tone. "You're going to pay for what you've done." 


	2. Chapter One

Chapter One  
  
Seacouver, 1995  
  
"I'll see your ten, and raise you ten more."  
  
Joe Dawson watched as two red chips joined the pile in the center of the table. Mac must have a fairly decent hand. As for his own . . .  
  
"I'm out," he announced, tossing his cards face-down on the table. He'd been losing pretty badly from the start, but, as he reminded himself, he couldn't blame anyone else. The poker game was his idea, after all. Just a little get-together with friends before the night's business started rolling in. Duncan MacLeod, sitting to his right, readily agreed to the game. Joe suspected that the ponytailed Highlander, like himself, was fairly itching to see how well the third man at the table played. Casting a glance across the table at the half dozen or so stacks of chips at Methos' elbow, Joe was itching to find out how he was doing it.  
  
Even now, the slender, brown-haired man boldly refused to take any cards from the deck. Was his hand that good, Joe wondered, or was he bluffing? He leaned forward, his attention squarely on Methos' inscrutable expression.  
  
Tossing two more chips into the center pile, Methos responded casually, "Your ten, MacLeod, and ten more."  
  
Joe caught MacLeod's slightly raised black eyebrow before the latter's face went blank. This should be interesting.  
  
Too bad Richie declined the invitation to join them. Mac's protégé was very likely still smarting over the whole Kristin business, and therefore reluctant to be anywhere near both Mac and the man who took Kristin's head. Joe suspected that Richie, with his clear-as-vodka face, would be faring as poorly as Joe himself, but might have enjoyed seeing the other two men face off against each other, and had a good laugh about it later.  
  
MacLeod went through the motion of studying his cards. After a moment or two, he chucked fifteen dollars' worth of chips onto the main pile. "Back to you, Methos," he challenged.  
  
"Very well." From his tone, Methos may well have been discussing who was going to take out the trash. "Your five, and fifteen more."  
  
Joe couldn't help himself; he let out a slow whistle. Meanwhile, the five-thousand-year-old man seemed to have his attention focused squarely on his cards. Methos must have one hell of a hand.   
  
"You're bluffing," declared MacLeod.  
  
In the same bored tone, and without looking up, Methos replied, "It'll cost you to find out."  
  
Mac eyed Methos; Joe was sure Mac was trying to detect any crack in the older Immortal's facade. Mac must not have found one, though, for he laid his cards down. "Not this time around."  
  
Methos followed suit and began scooping up his winnings. It was Joe's turn to deal, but his mind was no longer on the game. Gathering the cards together and casting a quick glance around the otherwise-empty tavern, he announced, "Let's call it for now. We can pick up after closing time. What did you have anyway, Methos?"  
  
Methos finished collecting his chips. "A pair of fives," he stated calmly.  
  
"A pair of fives?!" Mac was incredulous. "You mean I let a three of a kind go for a pair of fives?"  
  
Methos pushed the sleeves of his oversized gray sweatshirt past his elbows, seemingly paying no attention at all to MacLeod's outburst. "What time is it, Joe?" he asked.  
  
Joe set the deck of cards on the table and checked his watch. "Quarter after three. A new shipment of whiskey is on the way, and my night guy's due in any minute." He used his cane to get up and go behind the bar, where he began making space on the shelf for at least part of the shipment.   
  
"He's the one you just hired, right?" Mac asked by way of conversation.  
  
"Nah, that one doesn't show up until tomorrow."  
  
"How about a beer while you're at it?" Methos put in.  
  
A grin split Joe's bearded features. "Why not? It's not like you haven't got enough to pay for it, after all," he joked as he reached for a mug and began filling it. No sooner did he shut off the tap than he saw Mac and Methos suddenly go still. Mac's brown eyes met Methos' hazel ones. After watching Immortals for over twenty-five years, he recognized that look. Another Immortal was nearby. Did Richie decide to pop in after all?  
  
Mac looked ready to reach for the katana he kept in the duster coat he had draped over a vacant chair, while Methos clearly wanted to make a run for the exit. Neither man moved, however. Joe followed their collective gaze as it traveled to the front door. After a second or two, the door opened, admitting a young woman with a baby carrier in both arms and a diaper bag over one shoulder. MacLeod got to his feet, and Joe rounded the corner of the bar, Methos' beer forgotten.  
  
She was pretty, Joe decided, about five and a half feet tall, and looked no older than nineteen or twenty. Her yellow-blonde hair hung from a simple side part to her shoulders, and she wore no make-up. She sported an open, waist-length denim jacket over a purple T-shirt and blue jeans. Her looks were not what captured his friends'interest, though. He observed her as she set the carrier on the table and leaned over to whisper a few unintelligible, yet soothing words to the carrier's occupant, a tow-headed boy about six or seven months old. The boy had been whimpering ever since he and the girl came into the tavern. She straightened up again and fixed eyes as dark as MacLeod's on the three of them.  
  
"Hello?" she ventured timidly. "I'm looking for a Joe Dawson?"  
  
"Look no further." Joe offered his hand, and she took it briefly. He thought he could detect a flicker of relief in those eyes. He introduced her to the others, remembering to use Methos' "Adam Pierson" pseudonym. MacLeod, Joe noted, was polite enough in his greeting, even shaking the girl's hand. Methos, however, wouldn't even say a word, instead choosing to remain seated and barely nodding an acknowledgment of her presence. "What can I do for you?" Joe inquired.  
  
"My name is Laura Kessler," she replied. "I believe you knew my father Daniel."  
  
Joe felt his jaw drop. "You're Dan's daughter?" he exclaimed, unable to keep the joy and astonishment from his voice. "Man, I haven't heard from him in over twenty years! What's he been up to?"  
  
"Nothing anymore, I'm afraid," Laura said sadly. "He and my mother were killed when their car hit a guard rail and overturned not far from our house."  
  
Dan dead. Joe felt the instant pang of grief over losing an old friend. What Laura must be going through! "I'm sorry to hear that," he told her.  
  
"That's why I came here," she went on. "Someone's been stalking my brother, you see, and you're the only person I can turn to for help."  
  
Out of the corner of his eye, Joe spotted Methos' doubtful look. "Laura, your father and I haven't spoken in a long time. How did you know where to find me?"  
  
"Dad heard, through a mutual friend, that you owned a blues bar here in town. I saw the name Joe's in the phone book, and thought I'd take a chance."  
  
Mac chose this moment to speak up. "Why would Joe be the only person you can turn to?" he questioned Laura.   
  
"When I was growing up, my father used to tell me how close he and Mister Dawson . . . Joe . . . were." She paused briefly before shifting her gaze back to Joe. "He said he could trust you with his life."  
  
Joe had to take a stab at it, but he already guessed what Laura's answer would be. "Why not go to the police, then?"  
  
"They would ask too many questions."  
  
"Too many questions?" Methos' voice dripped with skepticism. "Is your brother in some kind of legal trouble?"  
  
Laura either didn't catch or chose to ignore Methos' tone. "Oh, no," she answered earnestly. "Jonathan's completely innocent, I can assure you. It's just that with his condition . . ."  
  
This time, it was MacLeod's turn to sound surprised. "Condition?" he echoed.  
  
Laura's uncertain gaze flicked from Joe to Mac to Methos, then back again. "They won't talk," Joe commented.  
  
Laura relaxed her visibly tense stance. "Because of his condition, I have to take constant care of him, and now that someone's after him . . ."  
  
"Where's your brother now?" MacLeod cut in.  
  
"I'm sorry," Laura apologized. "I forgot to introduce you." She reached down and pulled the baby from the carrier. He was wearing a light blue, one-piece pajama outfit and white socks. "This is Jonathan," she held the boy up for all three men to see, "and he's been a baby for as long as I can remember."  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
The group - Duncan, Methos, Dawson, Laura, and Jonathan - adjourned to the tavern office at Dawson's suggestion. Discussing the Kesslers' situation demanded far more privacy than the main room of the bar could afford. Laura quietly sat in front of Dawson's office desk, while Jonathan, in his carrier, rested on the desk itself. Laura had set the diaper bag at her feet. She primly crossed her ankles and folded her hands in her lap. Her spine was held in rigid straightness.  
  
Duncan shifted his attention to the now-quiet Jonathan. An infant Immortal? How could it be? Duncan sensed Jonathan, had laid eyes on him, yet he still had trouble accepting the boy's existence. What caused Jonathan's first mortal death? Some sort of freak accident? Overly abusive parents? Duncan didn't like to think of his Watcher's old friend in that light, but he had to consider the notion.  
  
"The crash happened outside this little town where we were living, not far from Vancouver," Laura began. "There was a freak storm, and the authorities told me that my father lost control of the car. He and my mother were killed instantly." She paused, her uncertain gaze scanning her audience. "I had to get Jonathan out of town before anyone found out about him, so I took him and hit the road. I thought we'd be safe."  
  
"But you weren't." This from Dawson, seated behind the desk.   
  
"We were staying in a no-name motel near the border, and one morning, I woke up to find this under the door." Laura produced a folded-up piece of white paper from the wallet she kept inside the left pocket of her jacket. She offered the paper to Duncan, who stood to her right. He reached over and took it, neatly unfolding the creases. He quickly scanned the note and handed it to Dawson, who read the single, typewritten sentence aloud:  
  
"The boy is mine."  
  
"Laura," asked Duncan, "did you show that note to anyone?"  
  
She looked up at Duncan and shook her head firmly. "I was afraid of letting Jonathan's condition slip. I don't want anyone calling him a freak or a child of the devil or anything."  
  
Or a changeling sent by demons. The memory of his father's words came back to Duncan, and he could well imagine what Laura was facing. "Do you have any idea why someone would want to harm your brother?"  
  
Another shake of her head. "All I know is what I already told you."  
  
Duncan couldn't help himself. Out of habit, he searched every aspect of Laura's expression for some hint of deception, but he found nothing except the wild-eyed desperation of someone who was on the run mixed with the hope that her prayers were about to be answered.  
  
"Well," Dawson's voice cut into his thoughts, "I'll see what I can do, but it may take a few days. Do you have a place to stay?"  
  
"I checked us into a hotel before looking you up," she replied.  
  
"Laura," said Duncan, "until Joe gets to the bottom of this, it might be best for you and Jonathan to stay with me."  
  
"With you?" Methos, who'd been silently looking on from his station near the doorway, clearly didn't like that idea one bit.  
  
Laura took exception, as well. "Mister Pierson is right. We can't impose on you like that. We're practically strangers."  
  
"Whoever is after you already found you once. They'll probably find you again."  
  
"But we'd be putting you in danger."  
  
Duncan shrugged nonchalantly, a motion he was sure drove Methos up the wall. "I can take care of myself," he returned casually.  
  
"How?" countered Laura.  
  
Dawson answered, before Duncan could even open his mouth, "Let Mac worry about that."  
  
Laura seemed to consider that for a long moment. "Very well," she said to Dawson. "If you think it's a good idea."  
  
"It's settled, then." Duncan reached into his pants pocket for his car keys. "I'll drive you and Jonathan to the hotel and get your things, while Joe starts looking into your, er, situation."  
  
Laura got to her feet, picking up her brother and the diaper bag. "Mister MacLeod . . . Mac . . . I can't tell you how grateful I am for all you're doing for us."  
  
"Forget it, " he returned.  
  
"But I owe you one," she insisted. "Really."  
  
The instant Laura and Jonathan were out the door, Methos left his post and approached Duncan. In a voice low enough so Laura couldn't hear him, he hissed, "Are you insane, MacLeod? What are you doing. letting her stay with you?"  
  
Duncan met Methos' challenging gaze. "They're Immortal, Methos," he responded, in a voice low enough that he hoped Laura wouldn't hear him.  
  
"Tell me something else from the school of the more obvious," retorted Methos.  
  
Dawson got to his feet. "I don't think she's out to kill anyone," he stated matter-of-factly.  
  
"I wouldn't be so sure of that, Joe," argued Methos. "She could be bluffing."  
  
From Duncan, "How can she be bluffing if she doesn't even know the rules of the Game?" 


	3. Chapter Two

Chapter Two  
  
Vancouver  
  
Chloe Young's flight landed at the airport shortly before noon. From there it was to the baggage claim carousel, where she collected the luggage that had all but become her permanent traveling wardrobe, then to the Northwest Car Rental office located inside the airport. Yes, they had a car reserved in her name. No, she didn't need to worry about putting it on her credit card. The rental expense - like the cost of the flight, Chloe noted - would be taken care of by the organization. She accepted the key from the efficient, if overeager, college-age kid behind the desk, and hauled her baggage outside, where a dark green Ford was waiting. Over the past two and a half years, Chloe had become an expert when it came to last-minute, job-related travel, and the way the details of this trip were handled pleased her.  
  
She drove directly to the Watcher research center. She would check into her hotel and crash later, she told herself. Judging by the way the local Head of Research sounded, the situation was urgent. When she arrived at the center, sometime after one in the afternoon, she was immediately shown to the man's office. She barely had time to set her small tan purse on the desk before he appeared. She took in his frazzled, graying appearance, and was met with an equally assessing stare.  
  
"I'd heard that you look a little young," he remarked, somewhat apologetically. "I'm Clayton Ross. We spoke late last night."  
  
Chloe shook his offered hand. She wasn't surprised by his reaction to her looks. She never grew beyond the four foot, eleven inches she reached in her teens, and she rarely if ever wore makeup, a fact which made her appear years younger than she actually was. And her chest - well, that was as flat as the clichéd pancake, one of her less-than-tactful male colleagues once commented when he thought she was out of earshot. She tucked a stray strand of mousy brown hair into the bun she always wore at the nape of her neck. "I'm glad I can be of service," she said. "What can you tell me about this case you found?"  
  
Ross sat down in the rolling chair behind his desk, while Chloe seated herself across from him. He reached for a local newspaper sitting on top of a stack of file folders on the desk. "This is the morning edition," he said as he handed the paper to her.  
  
Chloe adjusted her wire-rimmed glasses and scanned the headline on the front page: "Two die as car overturns: crash leaves two miraculous survivors."  
  
Ross went on, not even pausing to notice Chloe's reaction to the photograph below the headline. It was a family grouping, a man and woman in their mid to late forties standing in the background, and a girl in her early twenties cradling a baby boy in her lap in the foreground. "The five o'clock news yesterday didn't give much information about the survivors," he said. "The newspaper doesn't say a whole lot, either."   
  
Chloe let herself stare at the photo. "I'm sure you have people here who can work on this," she commented, a puzzled expression on her youthful features. "Why call me in?"  
  
Ross folded his hands across the desk. "I've been told that you have a knack for finding lost Immortals. Something about this strikes me as familiar, but I can't place my finger on it. Must be the way the girl's holding the baby. Makes me think about my daughter and grandson."  
  
A small smile crept across Chloe's lips. "Perhaps."  
  
"Anyway, neither I nor anyone else here has the time to give this the single-minded attention it deserves."  
  
She set the article back on the desk. "Is there anything else I need to know?" she queried.  
  
"There is one thing," he replied, "but I don't know how much it'll help you."  
  
"What is it?"  
  
"The man who was killed is rumored to have been a Watcher. He may have been assigned to something top secret, so if you need extra clearance to get into the classified files, let me know."  
  
They both stood up, and Chloe reached for her purse. Shaking Ross's hand a second time, she told him, "Thanks, but that isn't necessary. My boss back east took care of that already."  
  
She wasn't about to tell Ross, but Chloe felt the same sense of vague recognition that he did, and it had nothing to do with the blonde. It bothered her, that she couldn't place the older woman in the photograph, but she'd bet money that she knew her from somewhere.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Seacouver  
  
  
  
Duncan took his eyes off the road for a second, just long enough to glance at the pair seated next to him. The motion of the car sent Jonathan into a light doze as his sister cradled him, in the carrier, on her lap. Laura herself sat ramrod straight, her eyes riveted to road in front of them. Duncan wondered what was on her mind, then recalled the story about her parents. He imagined she was thinking of their brutal deaths. Perhaps I can get her to talk about the way she died, he said to himself.   
  
"Tell me about yourself." When did you first become Immortal? Was it before or after your mother and father were killed? Do you understand what happened to you and your brother?  
  
"Not much to tell," she said, glancing at him briefly. "Dad married Mom when I was five years old, and he adopted Jonathan and me. After that, we lived in place after place, usually sticking around a few months before moving on."  
  
"Oh."  
  
"I don't know what made Jonathan the way he is," Laura continued, answering part of Duncan's last unspoken question. "Mom always said it was an accident," she looked down at Jonathan, "but what kind of accident could do this to him? I asked her once, but she just got real sad and real quiet, so I never brought up the subject again."  
  
Duncan got a similar impression when he saw the shadow come into Laura's eyes. They spent the rest of the drive in uneasy silence.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
As he drove south, David Burke let his mind drift back to that night. The rage over Melissa's betrayal threatened to overwhelm him. How dare she? She knew how important it was for him to get back to a normal life after 'Nam. Why did she want to foist those brats off on him as if they were his own flesh and blood?   
  
He didn't discount Vandenberg's role in destroying his life, either. Even so, part of him wanted to feel grateful to his teacher for telling him the truth about their kind's inability to produce offspring. That would've saved him a lot of grief later on, he supposed, should he want to exercise his normal male desires on someone other than his wife. No, no bastards could be laid at his doorstep. The bitch tried it anyway, though.   
  
Burke laughed mirthlessly. He'd been tailing Melissa and her brats ever since that night, coming just within reach of them time and time again before she and her brats would escape yet again. Now that she and her fake husband were dead, the brats would have no place left to hide. Finally, he would have the justice that was denied him all these years.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Laura had only two pieces of luggage, but it appeared to Duncan that she must have crammed every item of clothing she and Jonathan owned into them. The duffel bag, the smaller of the two, nearly pulled Duncan's arm out of its socket when he picked it up. He didn't want to think about the weight of the huge upright suitcase which Laura insisted on handling, in addition to her brother, his carrier, and the diaper bag. At least the suitcase had wheels on it, Duncan mused. How did she manage all this baggage on her own?  
  
A few people were milling about the hotel lobby when Duncan and Laura stepped off the elevator, baggage and Jonathan in tow. Duncan was curious to know if any of them were Watchers, for surely an Immortal like Jonathan commanded a lot of attention, especially with an Immortal sister acting as his guardian.  
  
"Mac," Laura inquired, "why are you helping us?"  
  
Pushing all speculation about the Watchers aside, he turned to her and answered, "Because you asked."  
  
"I asked Joe, not you."  
  
"I volunteered, then." Duncan gave her a cocky half-smile.  
  
"Is it a habit of yours," she quipped, "playing the knight in shining armor?"  
  
"Sometimes."  
  
Jonathan started crying, then. "Oh, honey, what's the matter?" Laura cooed, tilting her head down to look at her brother.  
  
"Maybe he needs to be changed," suggested Duncan.  
  
"I don't think so . . ." Laura's voice trailed off eerily, and Duncan opened his mouth to ask why, but the sensation hit him at once. Another Immortal, and chances were that it wasn't a friend. Duncan looked left, right, then his eyes fell on the hotel's revolving front door, where a man wearing a dingy looking, beige-colored overcoat and carrying a large black rucksack entered the lobby. Duncan took in the man's close-cropped, dark blond hair and narrow-set eyes. His mind made an instant connection between the stranger and the Kesslers.  
  
"Mac?"  
  
Once again, Laura's voice interrupted Duncan's concentration, but this time, it sounded oddly weak. "What is it?" he asked, his stare still fixed on the new arrival.  
  
"All of a sudden, my head's spinning like a top."  
  
One look at Laura told Duncan she was in obvious pain. She had let go of the suitcase - though she still held onto Jonathan's carrier - and her free hand was at her temple. Feeling a sudden stab of concern, he told her, "Don't worry. You'll get used to it."  
  
Laura slowly lowered her hand - a signal that whatever pain she felt had passed - and a bewildered frown creased her brow. "Get used to what?" she asked.  
  
Duncan mentally cursed himself. This was neither the time nor the place to have that talk with her. "Never mind. Let's go."  
  
"I need to check out first," Laura said, reaching into her jeans pocket and pulling out her room key.  
  
"Let me take care of that," Duncan offered, taking the key out of her hand before she had a chance to refuse. He walked up to the registration desk, intending to cut off any contact the stranger might want to have with the Kesslers before it began.  
  
The other Immortal was already signing the hotel register by the time Duncan reached the desk. Duncan handed the young receptionist Laura's room key, and she called up Laura's bill on the hotel computer. The second the receptionist turned away from them, Duncan addressed the man. "The name's Duncan MacLeod," he told him. "In town long?"  
  
The greeting wasn't meant to be a casual one. Without even looking up, however, the stranger coolly responded, "Just passing through, friend."  
  
Duncan didn't buy that lie for a second. He handed the receptionist his credit card, and she swiped it through the card reader and printed up a receipt. With the receptionist's attention once again diverted, Duncan leaned forward and whispered in an ominous tone, "If you want them, you'll have to go through me."  
  
The man caught Duncan's thinly veiled threat, for he quickly gave Laura and Jonathan the once-over. Laura, her gaze on her brother, seemed unaware of what was transpiring at the registration desk. "Them?" the stranger scoffed. "Not even worth the effort."  
  
"I hope so."  
  
Burke watched as MacLeod rejoined his companions and ushered them out the revolving door. How nice it was that the brats found a protector! And one who was oh-so-willing to offer up his name. As soon as he could, Burke would look up the man's address and seek him out. Not to take his head - at least, not yet - but wherever this Duncan MacLeod was, he was sure to keep the brats near him. 


	4. Chapter Three

Chapter Three  
  
As soon as Mac, Laura and Jonathan left the bar, Joe set his laptop computer on the office desk and plugged it in. He turned the computer on, waiting for it to boot up fully before entering the access code that would gain him entry into the Watcher database. Methos paced back and forth behind him, pausing every few seconds to look over Joe's shoulder. All this was done in the space of only a few minutes, but to Methos, it felt more like hours.  
  
In a gesture of frustration, Methos stopped pacing and leaned forward, the palms of his hands flat on the desk. "Find anything yet?"  
  
Joe leaned back in his chair while the computer opened the database, and he gave Methos the barest hint of a smile. He understood Methos' impatience. "You know, you don't have to be here for this," he said. "I can do it by myself."  
  
"I want to see what her game is."  
  
"I don't think she has one," Joe mused.  
  
Wonderful, the voice inside Methos' head groaned. More damned chivalry. Joe's been around MacLeod too long. Out loud, he asked, "How did you and Daniel Kessler meet, anyway?"   
  
The computer beeped, and Joe typed in a search command. "Dan was a Watcher. We went to the Academy together. After we graduated, we were sent to the same research library, and we started hanging out with one another." Joe paused. "We were actually pretty close until he got his first field assignment, but we lost touch after that."  
  
"Do you know who he was Watching?"  
  
"That's the strange thing about it. He wouldn't tell me." The computer beeped again, causing Joe to return his attention to the task at hand. "Damn," he muttered. "Nothing's coming up under Laura's name."  
  
Methos wasn't surprised to hear that, but he chose not to comment on it for the time being. "Try her brother's name. If he's been a baby for as long as she can remember, he should be in the database somewhere."  
  
"Actually, I'll enter Dan's name. Whatever Immortal he was Watching is probably connected to Laura and Jonathan somehow."  
  
Said Methos, in a singsong voice, "I bet I know how."  
  
"What makes you say that?"  
  
If Methos even heard the question, he gave no indication of it . . .  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Northeast Gaul, 493 AD  
  
It had rained all night, so by early morning the normally dry paths of the Frankish village were little more than muddy troughs pockmarked by footprints, horse tracks, and the occasional set of wheel ruts. A handful of the village children delighted in making a mess of themselves as they ran up and down the main pathway, splashing and squealing with excess glee. The merchants were already setting up their stalls for the day, and one man selling apples and pears was even then finishing a business transaction with one of the village women. The day promised to be a busy one.  
  
The children darted, unnoticed, around the two men strolling down the main path. The taller of the two was the village Chieftain, a giant of a man who refused to be called by anything other than his title. Red-gold hair fell in loose strands past his shoulders, and he was growing a long, drooping mustache in imitation of the new Emperor. His companion, nearly a foot shorter and clean-shaven, was a newcomer to the village, and to the chieftain's small army. Both men sported helmets and cuirasses, and they had their swords belted at their sides, though circumstances kept them and the rest of the Chieftain's small army village bound.  
  
"So," the Chieftain ventured, turning to his comrade, "how do you like my village after five moon-cycles of living here?"  
  
When he first joined the Chieftain's forces, Methos had expected to be in battle almost immediately. Instead, he spent a rather uneventful sojourn in the Chieftain's little hamlet, doing nothing better than guarding the Chieftain's pregnant wife. He didn't mind the rest, or avoiding the battlefield. Dying wasn't on his list of favorite activities.  
  
"It's been . . . quiet," he allowed.  
  
The Chieftain nodded. "I know what you mean. I would rather be fighting alongside the Emperor myself."  
  
Clovis, the latest in a long line of men seeking to become the head of a fractured, forever-warring people, was much like his forebears. He would use any tool at hand to achieve his goal. Had Clovis lived fifteen hundred years ago, and been Immortal, he might have made a respectable Horseman. "I hear that the Emperor is not fighting much nowadays," Methos pondered aloud, "because of his new bride."   
  
The Chieftain scoffed. "The Empress Clothilde will not distract him much longer. Soon, he will return to the field of battle."  
  
"And you intend to be at his side when he does."  
  
"As soon as my wife delivers my firstborn," added the Chieftain. "She has been having her pains for nearly two days now. Surely my son is ready to come out!"  
  
As if on cue, a wide-shouldered, thickly-set woman - Methos recognized her as lady-in-waiting to the Chieftain's wife - ran up to them. "My lord!" she panted. "Come quickly!"  
  
"What is it?" demanded the Chieftain.  
  
Drawing in a deep breath, the lady-in-waiting replied, "My lady is almost delivered of her babe. Come!"  
  
She grabbed the Chieftain by the wrist and started to drag him off in the direction of his hut. The Chieftain could have shown his anger and had the lady-in-waiting severely punished for daring to touch him so, but perhaps the news of the babe rendered him merciful, for he merely allowed the woman to pull him along. Methos trailed behind them. "It appears that your prayers are about to be answered," he told the Chieftain.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
"Push, my lady, push!"  
  
The shouted command assaulted Methos' ears as soon as he, the Chieftain, and the lady-in-waiting reached the doorway of the Chieftain's one-room hut. It was followed by a muffled response, then incoherent screaming. The Chieftain all but shoved the lady-in-waiting out of the way in his haste to join his wife. The lady-in- waiting trailed in his wake. Not knowing what else to do, Methos lingered in the doorway.  
  
He watched with curiosity the scene before him. Lady Alice, the Chieftain's diminutive Gallo-Roman wife, lay in childbirth position on the low, crudely-built bed located at the far end of the room. The old pagan midwife, a domineering woman built much like the lady-in-waiting, knelt at the foot of the bed, her back to Methos. She was preparing to guide the infant out of the expectant mother's womb. The lady-in-waiting raced to the right of the bed and pulled a wet towel from a bowl sitting on a nearby table, and she used the towel to dab at Lady Alice's damp brow. Sweat glistened on Lady Alice's face and neck and made her dark hair appear as if she had just doused her whole head in water. That, along with her glazed-over eyes and scant breathing, made Methos wonder if she would survive the birthing.  
  
The Chieftain knelt down on the other side of the bed and took one of his wife's small, pale hands in both his large ones. He reminded her that she would soon be free of the terrible pain afflicting her, that her labor was part of her Christian God's plan, that their son was worth it. It was the midwife, however, who held Lady Alice's full attention.  
  
"One more push, my lady. One more!" the old woman ordered her.  
  
Lady Alice's reply came out in labored gasps. "I . . . I . . . cannot!"  
  
The midwife would have none of that. "My lady, your babe wants to come into this world," she countered, her tone uncompromising and unforgiving. "Push!"  
  
As she obeyed the midwife's command, Lady Alice emitted a scream loud enough to awaken even a headless Immortal. The Chieftain covered his ears to shut his wife's shrieks out, and the lady-in-waiting clearly wanted to join her mistress in the unbearably loud screeching. Methos himself nearly jumped in reaction to the sound, but he forced himself to remain impassive. Nothing he said or did at that point would have any effect on the situation, so why bother? He ignored the pang of conscience that pleaded with him to do something, anything, to make Lady Alice's plight more bearable.  
  
After a moment or two, any assistance on his part proved to be moot, anyway. The midwife pulled the baby from between its mother's legs and held it by the feet, delivering a swift smack on the infant's buttocks. The child let out a single, mewling cry, letting one and all know it had finally arrived.  
  
"Blessed be!" the lady-in-waiting exclaimed breathlessly, as Lady Alice slumped in utter exhaustion. Methos wasn't surprised that he was the only one who noticed the complete deadness that had come across Lady Alice's features. All other eyes were on her newborn babe.  
  
"Is it a son?" the chieftain asked hopefully.  
  
Said the midwife, "A daughter, I'm afraid." The Chieftain showed his disappointment at the announcement. "But do not fret," the midwife was quick to add. "Sons will surely follow."   
  
The midwife cut the umbilical cord with a knife made expressly for the purpose and handed the babe to the lady-in-waiting for its first bath. While the lady-in- waiting took charge of the girl and the Chieftain spoke quietly to his wife, Methos pulled the midwife aside, lowering his voice so that the others wouldn't hear him.  
  
"Old woman, she has had a hard time with the birth."  
  
The midwife wiped her hands on her skirt, seemingly unconcerned about Methos' observation. "Yet our gods were benevolent, and allowed her to live. It is a sign they want our Chieftain to have sons."  
  
Did she not understand, or did she not care? "Listen, woman!" Methos hissed. "If Lady Alice becomes with child again, she will die! You know she cannot endure another birthing."  
  
The midwife's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Do you have foreknowledge of this event?" she challenged him.  
  
"I've seen it happen before."  
  
"So have I. Your words mean nothing."  
  
Methos refused to let the matter rest. "Then you know as well as I what could happen."  
  
The midwife turned her back on him. "The gods will tell, in due course . . ." she put emphasis on the words in due course " . . . what is to pass."  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
She came up to him while he sat down on the bench outside his own quarters and ate his midday meal. Methos decided he never liked the way the midwife walked around the village as if she had more authority than the Chieftain himself. Yes, she provided a valuable service to the women here, but that was all. She held no real power. She reminded him of some of the Immortals he met along the way. They were full of their own self-importance, too.  
  
"I would have words with you." The midwife's inflection suggested she wouldn't take no for an answer.  
  
Methos set down the slab of meat he was working on. "What do you want?" he demanded wearily. "I'm busy at the moment."  
  
"Resume your meal. This will take none of your time." The midwife made herself comfortable next to him. "I wish to speak to you about the Lady Alice."  
  
"What about her?" He tried to sound as if the Lady Alice mattered little to him.  
  
"I would have you know that she is recovering."  
  
She was so self-satisfied, wasn't she? "That's good to hear." He kept all indication of relief out of his voice as he went back to his eating.  
  
The midwife seemed angry about his apparent lack of interest. "Well?" she pushed on impatiently. "Don't you want to hear about the babe?"  
  
"A puny girl? Hardly." He swallowed the chunk of meat he'd been chewing, hoping the midwife would not notice that his indifference was a mask.  
  
The midwife's next pronouncement echoed what Methos had already suspected. "It appears that she will not live long."  
  
That would break Lady Alice's heart, Methos thought. "What does that have to do with me?" he deadpanned.  
  
"I merely assumed you would like to be informed about the babe's condition," the midwife responded, "since you seem so worried about her mother's."  
  
"Do you mean to infer something?"  
  
"What would I wish to infer?" she inquired with false innocence before getting up and walking away. As he watched her go, Methos sensed that that was not the last he would hear of the subject . . .  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Seacouver, 1995  
  
"Hello? Earth to Methos!"  
  
Dawson's voice jerked Methos back to the present. He apologized, and asked Joe if the Watcher database had come up with anything yet. "No," Joe told him. "My system crashed. I'll reboot it and try again after the bar closes." He paused, stroking his gray beard thoughtfully. "You know, Methos, in over twenty-five years as a Watcher, I've never even heard of an infant Immortal."  
  
"Nor are you likely to encounter another one," Methos responded. "I've been around five thousand years . . ."  
  
"So you keep reminding us," Joe cut in with a wry grin.  
  
" . . . and I've never even heard of one." He wasn't about to tell Joe about the only pre-Immortal baby he'd ever seen.  
  
"Why is that?"  
  
Methos strolled around the desk until he faced Joe. "Think about it. An infant who is an Immortal would be quick, defenseless prey for an opponent bent on either an easy kill or a merciful one."  
  
Joe considered that for a moment. "That's got to be what's going on here, then."  
  
"Excuse me?"  
  
"Laura," answered Joe. "She must be protecting Jonathan from another Immortal."  
  
Methos shrugged. "Maybe, maybe not."  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
In his hotel room, Burke casually opened his rucksack and removed all the usual items: shirts, pants, various toiletries, a music box . . .  
  
It was the music box he gave Melissa as a wedding present. He could never bring himself to get rid of the thing, even after he learned of her betrayal. Now, he was glad he held on to it, for he could make use of it.  
  
Of course, it was no longer in pristine condition. It hadn't been since that night. The portrait on the carved lid showed marks of fire damage, though the rest of the box's surface was intact. And the music still played, too. Burke tested it every now and again. He felt like doing so now, while he finished his unpacking. He twisted the knob on the back of the box and opened the lid. The strains of Schubert's "Ave Maria" played softly for him. He set the box on a bedside table.  
  
"The slut's daughter made it too easy for me to find her," Burke said aloud as he pulled a rolled-up newspaper from one of the rucksack's side pockets. He didn't need to bring it with him; he memorized the whole article. He unrolled the paper and read the front page headline once again, a cold grin slowly easing its way across his features:  
  
"Two die as car overturns: crash leaves two miraculous survivors."  
  
He'd bought the paper just before crossing the border into the States. It repeated everything the television reporters were saying about the wreck, and even used the same family photograph to accompany its story. Burke unfolded the paper and let his eyes fall once more on that photograph. A man by the name of Daniel Kessler stood in the background of the photo, his arm around the shoulders of a woman identified as his wife. A young blonde girl sat in the foreground, holding a baby boy in her lap. The same blonde and same baby who were with MacLeod in the hotel lobby. Burke finally settled his gaze on the wife.  
  
"It's your fault, Melissa, that things had to come to this," he said to the woman. "It doesn't matter that they aren't of your blood any more than they are of mine. If you had not lied to me about them then, I would not have to come after them now."  
  
He carelessly tossed the paper on the bed and finished his unpacking. 


	5. Chapter Four

Chapter Four  
  
Duncan parked the Thunderbird near the rear entrance to the dojo and got out of the car. The ride to the loft, like the one to the hotel, passed tensely and quietly. Only this time, Duncan's worries had something concrete to focus on. The Immortal at the hotel never offered his own name, nor could Duncan make out the man's signature on the hotel register, but instinct told him that the stranger was the source of Laura and Jonathan's "trouble". The man was obviously lying through his teeth when he claimed to be "just passing through". Duncan saw the hate in his eyes as they fell on the Kesslers. Whatever grudge the man had against them had to be very personal. But what could they have done to him?  
  
He came around the front of the car and opened Laura's door. He didn't like the wild-eyed look she'd been wearing ever since they left the hotel. It reminded him of the look worn by some of the escaped slaves he'd escorted on the Underground Railroad. At least, Duncan thought grimly to himself, they knew why they were being hunted. Laura apparently didn't have a clue, and Duncan didn't know how to tell her. With Jonathan to worry about, not to mention the fear she must have for her own safety, he suspected she might not handle the news well at all.  
  
In spite of that, part of him envied her. His own father died believing Duncan was a creature sent by the devil. Daniel Kessler, well aware that Jonathan would never age, fully accepted the infant as his own, and would no doubt have done the same with Laura after her own first death. That thought gave Duncan pause. Did Daniel Kessler know about Immortals? Laura had said that her father was a friend of Dawson's. Could he have been a Watcher?  
  
Whatever the case, it was a pretty good bet that Daniel Kessler was killed before Laura was. Duncan guessed that the man could have helped Laura out more than anyone else, himself included.  
  
Laura left the dozing Jonathan on the front passenger seat and began helping Duncan pull her belongings out of the trunk. She retrieved the diaper bag, setting it on the ground while he took care of the duffel. She reached for the suitcase next, but when she tugged on the handle, the suitcase wouldn't budge.  
  
"Here, let me get it." Duncan leaned over and dislodged one of the suitcase wheels, which had gotten caught under the rim of the trunk. He removed the suitcase from the trunk, set it on the ground, and pulled the handle up for Laura..  
  
"Thanks," she told him.  
  
"You're welcome."  
  
He observed her as she picked up the diaper bag, and when she looked back up at him, some of the wildness had gone from her eyes, replaced by an expression he couldn't quite decipher. "Mac," she ventured, "can I ask you a really weird question?"  
  
"Go ahead."  
  
"I know Joe'll do all he can to help Jonathan and me, and you're all but bending over backwards for us, but what about Adam? Can we trust him, too?"  
  
Duncan cocked an eyebrow. "Why do you ask?"  
  
She shrugged. "Well, he doesn't say much. He barely spoke a word to me back at the bar."  
  
"It just takes a while to get to know him, that's all," he told her.  
  
"Either that, or he doesn't want people to now him."  
  
Uh-oh. Duncan would have to tread lightly here. "It sounds like you aren't too crazy about him."  
  
"More like the other way around. At least, that's the impression I get."  
  
Laura slung the diaper bag over her left shoulder and went to collect her brother. The moment she gripped the carrier handle, though, Jonathan let out a loud cry which made Duncan jump but had little if any effect on Laura. Gently wiping at the tears welling up in her brother's eyes, Laura said soothingly to him, "Don't worry, honey. I'm just picking you up. That's all."  
  
Watching Jonathan's sister tend to the boy, Duncan didn't at first realize the cause behind it. Now that cause struck him full force. Another Immortal. No, not like this! his mind screamed. Laura's not ready to see it!  
  
His right hand slowly reached in his coat for his katana while he glanced sideways at his charges. Laura had let go of the carrier handle, dropped the diaper bag on the ground, and seized her temples. Her body sagged against the still open passenger door of the car. "Mac," she moaned, "Something's wrong. The dizziness . . . it's back . . ."  
  
Duncan's eyes trained themselves on the source of his awareness, where Methos was at that moment heading around the front corner of the building, pushing the sleeves of his sweatshirt past his elbows.   
  
"Where's Dawson?" Duncan let his right hand drop to his side. He wanted to throttle Methos on the spot for scaring him like that.  
  
"Upstairs. I was watching for your car." Methos nodded toward Laura. "What's with her?"  
  
"Nothing." Laura's response sounded a bit too casual for Duncan's tastes. "I just felt a little lightheaded, that's all. It happened at the hotel, too."  
  
"Lightheaded?" Methos scoffed in disbelief. "I haven't heard that one in a while."  
  
Laura's retort came before Duncan could intervene. "Adam, if I'm supposed to apologize for something, I'd really like to know what it is."  
  
With that, she again reached for her brother and walked over to the rear entrance of the dojo, leaving the larger bags behind. "Help me out with these," Duncan growled softly at Methos.  
  
He made his displeasure abundantly clear, but Methos ignored it. "What exactly happened at the hotel?" he asked Duncan.  
  
"I'll tell you upstairs." Duncan replied tersely.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
While Laura took advantage of Duncan's shower, Duncan wandered around the loft, holding Jonathan in one arm and waving a baby rattle with his free hand. When Laura had fished it out of the diaper bag earlier, she explained that it was her brother's favorite toy, a fact which Duncan found evident in the way the baby continually tried to reach for it, giggling all the while.   
  
Duncan was entertaining his audience, as well. Dawson, who was standing by the kitchen island, leaning on his cane as he watched the spectacle, couldn't help but smile. Methos, too, found the situation quite amusing. Seated on one end of the sofa, beer can in hand and sneakered feet propped up on the coffee table, he saw the whole thing as one big joke.  
  
"Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod: warrior, Immortal . . . and baby-sitter. You know, Joe, I believe it suits him."  
  
"You're right," Dawson had to agree. "He does seem to be enjoying it."  
  
By this time, Duncan and Jonathan were behind the sofa, and Duncan tossed both Methos and Dawson a dark glance. "I'd like to see one of you try keeping him calm. He gets agitated every time he senses another One of Us."  
  
Methos snorted. "You think I've never been around a baby before?"  
  
"Have you?" challenged Duncan.  
  
"Maybe," Methos replied evasively. The older Immortal sat up straight, putting his feet on the floor. "Right now, though, I'd rather hear about the hotel."  
  
Duncan felt no need to beat around the bush. "There was another Immortal in the lobby. He was signing in while we were on our way out."  
  
He ignored Methos' muttered curse, but had to answer Dawson's question: "How did Laura react when she picked up on the guy?"  
  
"She told me she was feeling dizzy." Duncan eyed Dawson. "She didn't have the slightest idea what was happening to her."  
  
Dawson perked up at that observation, and Methos added, rather caustically, "She mentioned something about 'lightheadedness' downstairs, too."   
  
"What was the guy's name?" asked Dawson.  
  
Duncan paused by the corner of the bed closest to the bathroom and eyed Jonathan, who had succeeded in grasping at his target and was now trying to fit the rattle into his mouth. "He didn't tell me. I was hoping you'd be able to find something if I told you what he looks like."  
  
He gave his Watcher the unknown Immortal's description, and Dawson said, "I'll run it through the database. Did he say why he was in town?"  
  
Taking the rattle from Jonathan, Duncan answered, "He said he wasn't in town long."  
  
Suggested Methos, "Maybe he knew beforehand that you'd be there with her."   
  
Duncan met his friend's level gaze. "Don't even go there, Methos."  
  
"Why not?" argued Methos, rising to his feet. "An Immortal you've never seen before suddenly turns up at the very hotel where your damsel in distress is registered, right when she's checking out, and you automatically assume he's after her head."  
  
"And you assume she's after mine," snapped Duncan. "You're jumping to conclusions."  
  
Methos refused to give in. "How else would you explain it?"  
  
"Coincidence." Jonathan had once again drifted off to sleep, and Duncan carefully laid him down on the bed and searched the duffel bag for a baby blanket to cover him. The duffel sat wide open on the trunk at the foot of Duncan's bed, while the diaper bag and suitcase - both closed - and baby carrier lay on the floor next to the trunk. Finding no blanket in the duffel, he turned his attention to the suitcase, unzipped it, and reached inside. He didn't expect his hand to come in contact with a long object having a strangely familiar feel to it, and both Methos and Joe took note of the play of emotions - shock, confusion, and a little bit of dismay - that crossed his features.  
  
"What is it?" inquired Dawson.  
  
Duncan's hand closed around the object and slowly pulled it free. It must have lain diagonally in the suitcase; otherwise, Laura couldn't have fit it in there. Duncan grasped the hilt of the American Civil War era cavalry saber and slid it from its scabbard. He held the saber up to the light filtering through the window. The gleam of the blade indicated that its owner took very good care of it.  
  
"Oh shit," groaned Joe.  
  
Methos was suddenly standing at Duncan's side, his concentration riveted on the saber. "I hate to say I told you so . . ."  
  
"He's right," said Dawson. "If she has a sword, she probably knows how to use it."  
  
Methos made his next remark to know one in particular. "I wonder if she's used it yet."  
  
Duncan shot him a you're-lucky-I-don't-take-your-head-for-that glare. "Why don't you ask her, then?" he dared the older man.  
  
From Dawson: "Take it easy, Mac."  
  
"Look at the evidence, Joe. She has no explanation for her dizzy spells, she doesn't know why her brother doesn't age . . ."  
  
"Her father was a Watcher," Dawson cut in. "He had to have told her something before he died."  
  
"But not everything," Duncan maintained.  
  
Methos tried to reason with him this time. "Mac . . ."  
  
"I'm telling you," Duncan's desperate assertion cut Methos off, "she's innocent."  
  
"We'll see," commented Methos.  
  
Joe saw Mac's eyes narrow suspiciously. "What do you mean by that?" the Highlander demanded.  
  
"Let's not let on that we found out about her little secret," Methos said, carefully taking the saber off Duncan's hand and putting it in the scabbard. "If she thinks we're not on to her, she might relax and let something slip." Methos placed the saber back in the suitcase and closed the zipper, making the suitcase appear untouched.  
  
"She hasn't got anything to hide," Duncan insisted.  
  
"You sure?" his friend asked.  
  
"Positive."  
  
"I find that hard to believe, even for you." Methos was off on another of his MacLeod-is-too-naive-so-I-have-to-watch-his-back kicks. "Of course, if you are one hundred percent certain of her innocence, feel free to tell her anything you please."  
  
"You're the one who's convinced she's devised this elaborate plan to kill me, even calling in backup to help her out. Why don't you tell her you're on to her?"  
  
Methos softened his tone - a rarity for him. "Trust me on this one, Mac. Laura Kessler is not telling the truth here."  
  
"Who's not telling the truth here?"  
  
Laura's voice gave all three men a start. Duncan and Methos whirled around and saw her standing by the doorway to the bathroom, towel drying her hair. Only Joe had the presence of mind to deduce that Laura hadn't heard much, if any, of the conversation, and therefore meant little by the question. "They're just having an old argument, Laura," he told her.  
  
"Whatever." She continued to dry her hair, apparently not giving the matter another thought.  
  
"Jonathan's asleep," Duncan supplied lamely, attempting to change the subject anyway.  
  
"That's good," Laura said. "He didn't get a wink of sleep the whole way down here." Draping the towel around her neck, Laura approached the bed. She hoisted the suitcase onto the foot of the bed, opened a side pocket which Duncan had failed to notice, and pulled out a light blue fleece blanket, which she tucked around her brother.  
  
Joe took this opportunity to make his excuses. "I'll see you later," he told the group. "I have to get back to the bar and check in that whiskey shipment."  
  
"Joe, wait."  
  
Before Laura had a chance to say more, Dawson was in the elevator and closing the door. She fought back a curse and looked at Duncan. "What do you feel like for dinner?" he asked her casually, trying to diffuse her frustration at not being able to ask Dawson about the progress he made on her problem.  
  
"Anything's fine. I'm not picky." As soon as the words were out, Jonathan let out a small cry. Duncan sucked in a deep breath, waiting for the sensation of another Immortal nearby to hit him, but it never came. Instead, Laura calmly lifted Jonathan into her arms and felt his bottom. "Uh-oh!" she said to him. "You're soaked!" Without batting an eye, she handed her brother to Methos, who stood closest to her. "Here," she said, "hold on to him while I get a fresh diaper and his baby wipes."  
  
"Laura . . ." he began beseechingly.  
  
"Relax, Adam," she instructed him. "You sound like you've never been around a baby before."  
  
While she rummaged around in the diaper bag, Methos gave Duncan a pleading look. Duncan returned it with a smug one that said, "Don't look at me. You're stuck with him." 


	6. Chapter Five

Chapter Five  
  
Northeast Gaul, 493 AD  
  
Three days after his daughter's birth, the Chieftain took the majority of his forces and left the village. The previous afternoon he received word that Emperor Clovis was not only ready to march but also demanded use of the Chieftain's army. The Chieftain did not worry about leaving his wife and child, who, the midwife assured him, were out of danger from the birthing. He did, however, leave a small contingent of troops behind, should any of his enemies want to take advantage of his absence and kidnap his family. Methos, he decreed, was to take charge of this home guard.  
  
Methos didn't argue. He certainly had no wish to become one of the battlefield casualties. He could only imagine the shock and terror his rapid recovery would cause. Besides, he and Lady Alice had quickly grown close. She looked upon him as a brother, continuously turning to him for advice. Her own brother, she told him once, was part of a monastic order about half a day's ride from the village, and she said Methos reminded her strongly of him. Methos tried not to let the flattering comparison get to him, but he had to admit, being someone's brother felt good. He missed that.  
  
That's not to say that his position in the home guard didn't have its pitfalls. One night, a few days after the Chieftain and his main army had gone, a couple of members of the home guard got into a fight, one witnessed and encouraged by the almost the entire the village, especially the Chifetain's lieutenant. At the end of it, one man stabbed the other in the stomach with a wickedly long hunting knife. Methos had to see to the injured man, mete out justice to the offender, and restructure the watch schedule around the two combatants. The idiocy of the whole affair caused him to question the Chieftain's decision to leave him in charge. With all the work he had to do regarding the fight alone, he welcomed the opportunity to return to his own meager hut, fall down on his bed, and contemplate his future plans, his past memories, anything to keep his mind off not only the two morons who thought it was a good idea to start their own war, but the rest of the village, as well.  
  
"Captain?"  
  
At first, Methos didn't realize someone was speaking to him, but he remembered the title the Chieftain gave him, and he opened his eyes before addressing the lady-in-waiting.  
  
"What is it?" he asked wearily.  
  
"Milady. She wishes to see you."  
  
"Now?"  
  
"Yes, Captain."  
  
He suppressed a groan and reminded himself of Lady Alice's high opinion of him. "Tell her I'm on my way."  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Despite the lateness of the hour, Lady Alice was still wide awake. When Methos appeared in the doorway to her hut, he saw that she was sitting up in the bed, her back supported by large pillows. The baby lay asleep beside her, in a basket which rested on the bedside table. Even from across the room, Methos could hear the infant's labored breathing. Damn midwife. How could the woman not see that unlike her mother, the baby had yet to show any real improvement in her condition? Methos doubted the child would last much longer.  
  
He kept his worries to himself, however. "You wanted to see me, my lady?"  
  
"Yes." Lady Alice patted the edge of her bed. "Come closer, so that our talk will be unheard by others."  
  
Methos approached the bed, but he chose to stand at the foot in case any passerby - namely the midwife - should see him in the quarters of the Chieftain's wife and assume he was there for illicit purposes, in spite of Lady Alice's chaste reputation and the way she openly addressed Methos as "brother".  
  
Lady Alice continued. "I need to speak to you about my daughter."  
  
Methos kept his tone neutral. "What about her?"  
  
"She will not live long, will she?"  
  
It was not meant as a question, but Methos still maintained the façade. "Why do you ask?"  
  
"The birthing. It was hard on her."  
  
"It was hard on you both, yet you recovered."  
  
Lady Alice sighed wistfully. "Only because the Lord God willed it."  
  
"My lady, your daughter will follow your example."  
  
The statement was an empty one, and they both knew it. "If she dies," Lady Alice lamented, "I will have nothing, and my husband will want to find another who can give him what I cannot."  
  
That was her greatest fear. The midwife informed her, repeatedly, that if she could bear no more children, the Chieftain would abandon her for a wife who could give him the sons he so ardently desired. The midwife did this out of spite, Lady Alice realized, yet was there not a grain of truth in the old woman's words?  
  
"Do not say that," Methos commanded. "You must have faith, as your God teaches you to do."  
  
"And if I have no faith?"  
  
Methos had no answer for that.  
  
The chieftain and Lady Alice's daughter died that night.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Three Months Later  
  
"In nomine padre, et fili, et spiritus sancti, amen."  
  
Methos knelt before the altar, crossed himself, and began the ritual prayer. It was one the friars performed every evening, most in their rooms, a few, like Methos himself, in the monastery's drafty main chapel. He was alone that night, though, the rest of his brothers having retired to their chambers. He was glad for the privacy, for once again, memories of what happened in the village came back to haunt him.  
  
Before the death of the Chieftain and Lady Alice's daughter became widely known, a village woman came to Lady Alice, bearing an infant girl she had found while gathering wood in the forest. The village woman intended to ask Lady Alice's permission to keep the babe, but once Lady Alice laid eyes on the child, she thanked the woman for bringing her lost daughter back to her. The woman knew better than to argue; she was one of the few who was aware of the death of Lady Alice's daughter and how it seemed to unsettle her ladyship's mind.  
  
Methos also knew what transpired between Lady Alice and the village woman, even though he wasn't present when it took place. The lady-in-waiting and the midwife were aware, as well, and helped to orchestrate the switch. The lady-in-waiting, ever loyal, disposed of the dead child's body, and the village woman, having no desire to be exiled from the only home she'd ever known, had already promised her silence. The pagan midwife, on the other hand, viewed the conspiracy as a means of ridding herself of her chief rival for power in the village.  
  
She began by telling the villagers that Methos had murdered the Chieftain's daughter and coerced Lady Alice into accepting the foundling, named Clothilde after the Emperor's new wife, as her own. When that tactic failed, she attempted to convince anyone who would listen that he was an evil sorcerer who used his dark magic to destroy Lady Alice's mind, for her ladyship truly believed that rather than dying, her daughter recovered from the birthing in a matter of hours when all had feared for her death. The very mention of sorcery was what did Methos in. The superstitious villagers were too provincial to discount the midwife's tales, and they chased Methos off, the midwife egging them on. She vowed that should Methos ever set foot near Lady Alice again, she herself would wield the ax that would cut off his head.  
  
The monastery took him in willingly, thinking him to be a lost traveler, and when the head of the order invited him to join them, Methos accepted. He found the religion of Jesus Christ to be a curious one, but holy ground was holy ground, he reasoned, and right then he needed a safe place from which to observe what went on in the village. Would the Chieftain, upon his return, treat the foundling as his biological get, or would he shun her? If the latter turned out to be the case, Methos dreaded the consequences.   
  
So far, though, the Chieftain had yet to come back to the village. Methos had heard that much from a recent pilgrim passing through on his way to the Holy City. How soon would that change, Methos wondered?  
  
A whoosh of air, then . . .  
  
Another. One of his own. As if he didn't have enough to worry about. He didn't want to face another Immortal, holy ground notwithstanding. His ruminations forgotten, Methos got to his feet and turned toward the chapel door, clear on the other end of the room.  
  
He tugged on the collar of his cowl - one of these days, mankind would invent a way to weave softer cloth, he prayed - and held his breath. Lady Alice, wild-eyed, stood there, just inside the doorway, the baby Clothilde asleep in her arms.  
  
"Please," she begged, "you must help us."  
  
Methos let his consternation show. "What do you here?" he demanded.  
  
"My daughter. She is in danger."  
  
He heard his heart beating loudly in his chest. "How did you know where to find me?"  
  
"My brother is a friar here. I came to seek him out."  
  
"And you found me instead." An incredible coincidence. He cursed himself for not remembering what Lady Alice had said about her brother. He didn't know which of his fellow monks was the culprit, but he was positive that the man had communicated with his sister often enough for her to be aware of when new members joined the order. "Tell me, why do you wish to see your brother?"  
  
"I came to him for spiritual aid." Slowly, Lady Alice began crossing the room. "That is no longer important, however. What is important is that I've found you, that God has shown me the right path."  
  
Methos had to keep her focused, to draw her mind away from what she evidently considered a preordained occurrence. "Why do you require spiritual aid?"  
  
"It is the midwife. She has threatened to tell my husband that Clothilde is not of his blood, that she is a changeling brought by demons to replace our true daughter."  
  
That did not come as a surprise to Methos. Hadn't the old woman used that weapon on him? "And you say the midwife lies."  
  
"Of course she lies." By this time Lady Alice was about two-thirds of the way across the chapel, where she paused. "Think you that I would deceive my husband so?"  
  
"I know you were despondent when you feared your daughter would leave this world."  
  
Lady Alice again started to approach. "But I had faith, just as you recommended, and she is better now."  
  
"Then why would the midwife claim otherwise?" Maybe, just maybe, if Lady Alice valued his opinion that much, he might persuade her to not only admit the truth to her husband and herself, but to prevail upon the chieftain to adopt Clothilde, thereby increasing Clothilde's chances of survival.  
  
"She does not explain herself, so I cannot say." She closed the remainder of the distance between them. "But look at Clothilde." She thrusted the baby into his arms. "Does she appear dead to you?"  
  
So much for gentle persuasion. Methos stared down and the infant. She did bear a striking resemblance to to Lady Alice's true daughter. Methos knew he had to do something to make sure she wouldn't die just yet, but what? "My lady," he declared, handing Clothilde back to her, "this child is not yours."  
  
"She is!!" Lady Alice fairly screamed these words in desperation. "Please! You must help us!" 


	7. Chapter Six

Chapter Six  
  
Seacouver, 1995  
  
Duncan found it hard to keep the wry grin from his face as he watched Methos and Laura studiously avoid each other. If it weren't for the immediate problem of who was after the Kesslers and why, Duncan would have found some amusement in the way two of his three house guests acted when they thought no one else was looking. While he pulled out his wok, frozen vegetables, a package of diced chicken, and his cooking oil, Laura kept herself in the kitchen, close to him. When she discovered Duncan's dinner plates and flatware, she insisted on bringing them out. He even showed her where he kept his place mats and napkins, although he did so reluctantly. As he began heating up the vegetables, chicken, and oil in the wok, she arranged three place settings - two facing the kitchen, one facing the living room - in the middle of the kitchen island. Duncan was fairly certain she was trying to keep her eyes from wandering toward the window, where her current source of aggravation sat.  
  
Methos didn't have as easy a time of it. Oh, he made every attempt to keep his gaze focused on the scene outside, but Duncan caught each covert glance he shot Laura's way. Did he think Laura would go for her sword right then and there?  
  
Duncan tried to look at the situation from Methos' point of view. Laura had already shown herself to be deceptive once, by not revealing that she had a sword of her own. What else could she be hiding? Maybe Methos was right. Maybe she did make a habit of going from town to town and using Jonathan as bait to lure unsuspecting Immortals into her trap. But the pieces didn't seem to fit in a way to warrant that explanation. Duncan's instinct still told him that Laura didn't know what was going on.  
  
By the time the stir fry was ready, Laura had moved on into the living room, where she sat on the sofa and settled Jonathan in her lap. Meanwhile, Methos moved from the window to the kitchen and pulled a beer from the refrigerator. Duncan, none too subtly, positioned himself at the one place setting facing the living room, forcing Methos to take a seat opposite him, his eyes full of words he would have spat at Duncan if they were alone.   
  
Laura noticed none of this. Her attention by now was fully centered on Jonathan as she fed him from a jar of baby food which she unearthed from his diaper bag. "Dinner's ready, Laura," Duncan called to her as he turned off the burner and spooned stir fry onto the three plates. "You should eat before it gets cold." Hopefully, she wasn't too preoccupied to realize that she needed to feed herself, too.   
  
Said Laura, "Oh, that's all right. Jonathan, on the other hand, follows a strict schedule. He has to be fed on time."   
  
Her words sounded perhaps too matter-of-fact. Setting the wok back on the cooling burner, he commented, "It must be hard, taking care of him when he'll never grow up."  
  
A split-second pause as she wiped off her brother's face with the tail of her white T-shirt. "He's my brother, Mac," she said dully as she twisted the lid shut and set the jar and the tiny spoon she was using on the coffee table next to Jonathan's carrier. She said nothing more until Jonathan was back in the carrier and she was sitting down on the stool to Methos' right. Duncan did not fail to note how quickly Methos scooted his stool an inch or two away from her. "Adam," she said as she reached for the glass of water next to her plate, "Joe left before I had a chance to talk to him. Did he find anything out yet?"  
  
"Not yet." Methos' impassive façade turned stone cold, and he deliberately kept his eyes on his plate as he lifted a forkful of stir fry to his mouth. "He's still trying, though."  
  
The reply was solely meant for Mac, a fact which Laura caught on to at once. "You know, Adam," she remarked sarcastically, "you can address me directly."  
  
"Tell me about your, er, dizzy spells, Laura." Duncan put in, effectively cutting off any argument that might have ensued.  
  
"Not much to tell. They come on pretty intense, but disappear almost as soon as they hit."  
  
Just like when they were unloading her things from the car, Laura shrugged off her vertigo, as if it were an everyday occurrence. He proceeded, "How long have you been having them?"  
  
"Since the accident." She took a semi-long drink of water. "You know, I thought it was stress related to that at first, but now that I think about it, that doesn't sound right. Maybe it's migraines or something."  
  
"Maybe." Not. Laura put her glass down and started eating, and Duncan felt grateful that she missed the look that passed between him and Methos. He went on. "Has anything else . . . unusual happened?"  
  
"I have nightmares, too."  
  
"Nightmares?"  
  
For the first time that evening, Methos spoke without a hint of derision or scorn. The expression in Laura's eyes told Duncan she noticed this, too, but her voice still held an unconcerned tone as she explained, "Whenever I have a dizzy spell, I have nightmares that same night."  
  
Duncan shared Methos' astonishment, though he hoped he hid it better. "What happens in these nightmares?" he asked, in a voice he hoped sounded calm.  
  
"I see a car overturning, sometimes," she answered around a mouthful of vegetables and chicken. "Other times, I'm in this room, where it's real bright and cold, and there's a bunch of people wearing bluish-green clothes staring down at me, like I suddenly sprouted a second head." She swallowed. "Pretty bizarre, huh?"  
  
She didn't appear overly worried by the scenes she described. Duncan wished he felt the same way.  
  
"Why didn't you tell us this before?!"  
  
Duncan was stunned by Methos' outburst. So was Laura, for that matter, but she soon overcame her amazement. Duncan detected the very second her dark eyes flashed with anger and hot indignation. "Relax, Adam!!" she shouted. "They're only dreams, for crying out loud!" To Duncan: "Is he acting like this for a reason?"  
  
"Acting like what?" Duncan inquired evenly, forcing his emotions under control.  
  
"Like he doesn't want me around. If I didn't know any better, I'd swear he can't stand the sight of me."  
  
For once, Methos had the sense to look contrite.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Vancouver  
  
When she finished scanning the information on her laptop screen, Chloe Young closed the file and leaned back in her chair. She rubbed at her eyes in yet another vain attempt to rid herself of the latest in a long wave of jet lag-induced fits of exhaustion. She'd been working on the Kessler case since Ross gave it to her that afternoon. She wished she could have just put the older woman's description into the database and gone from there, but that would have taken too long. Besides, Chloe was convinced that her brain would eventually come up with a matching name on its own, instead of the one supplied by the photo's caption.   
  
She started with the name of the man in the photo, Daniel Kessler. According to the database, he was an historian for six years, before being moved over to a classified project some time in 1975. The only record after that was the single-sentence missive which Kessler sent to the Geneva headquarters, some two years later:  
  
"I hereby tender my resignation from the Watchers Society, effective this date, 25 September 1977."  
  
That didn't make any sense. A Watcher suddenly giving notice, without giving an explanation? She could easily buy the situation if Kessler were a field agent. Chloe backtracked through Kessler's records, looking for any location where he might have posted that resignation from, but found zilch. She wound up having to do a full database search, calling up every instance in which his name occurred. Aside from a number of requests he filled for a Joe Dawson, there wasn't much on Kessler at all.  
  
She sighed heavily, pushing her chair back from the desk in her hotel room and getting to her feet. She seldom made use of the Watcher libraries anymore, preferring to do her work in the privacy of whatever hotel room was serving as her temporary home. That was one of the reasons her boss set her up with access to any and all classified files. She rarely took advantage of it, though. She didn't need to.   
  
As she paced around the room, Chloe let her mind process the seemingly disparate pieces of information the Watcher database fed to her. One, she had a simple historian being tapped to get involved in a project whose secrecy demanded its classified status. Two, his resignation left nothing but unanswered questions. Three, the only time his name came up with any frequency was in communications with another Watcher. What was going on here?  
  
Chloe stopped pacing and looked back at her laptop, sitting there waiting for her to open another file. She crossed the room, back to the desk, and resumed her seat. She accessed the list of current Watchers and verified that Joe Dawson was still an active member of the organization. She tossed off a quick e-mail to him, asking what information he might have on Kessler. She knew she should have checked to see what Dawson's current post was, too, but that really didn't matter to her at that point. The jet lag she had been fighting since she landed finally caught up with her. She turned off her computer, slipped into the functional pajamas she packed for her trip, and fell into bed. She was asleep before her head hit the pillow.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Seacouver  
  
The night receptionist glanced questioningly at Burke as he headed toward the revolving front door, but she didn't say anything when he nodded to her in greeting. She was very helpful when it came to obtaining information on MacLeod, Burke discovered. She told him that her brother worked out twice a week at the martial arts dojo MacLeod owned. She also said that MacLeod lived in a loft directly above the dojo. The phone book in Burke's hotel room gave him the dojo's address. MacLeod no doubt had the bastards staying with him. The man was definitely the knight-in-shining-armor type.  
  
Not many people wandering about at one in the morning, Burke observed as he stepped outside, especially given the weather. The wind began to pick up around ten that night, and by the time he left the hotel, a good gale was blowing. Burke pulled the edges of his overcoat tight around him but refused to secure them with the coat's belt. It almost amused him that he had to wear the coat to protect himself from the elements, as if he had to worry about catching a cold.  
  
He had no problem spotting his car. The large, light blue, two-door Cadillac stuck out like a sore thumb against the darker, foreign-made cars that littered the hotel parking lot. Burke unlocked the driver's side door and slid into the front seat. He turned the engine on and let it warm up.  
  
The dojo was a twenty-minute drive from the hotel. Burke parked across the street, so that neither MacLeod nor his guests would sense him just yet. He turned off the car engine and sat there for a moment, studying the run-down building. The windows of the dojo and the floors above it were dark. All the better.  
  
He opened the door and got out of the car. "Well, well, my dears," he intoned ominously as if the bastards were right there before him. "I'll have to wait to get you, I suppose, but that doesn't mean I can't make you aware of my presence."  
  
He closed the car door and reached inside his coat . . .  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Mac and Adam slept soundly on Mac's bed. Mac was snoring lightly. Jonathan, too, slumbered deeply, the first time he'd done so all day. Laura, on the other hand, tossed and turned on the couch, thoughts of the three men she met that afternoon flooding her mind, although she tried hard to force those thoughts away.  
  
Joe was every bit the man her father described. Kindness shone in his eyes, and he had an open, easy manner about him. The stereotypical bartender, to be sure, always ready to listen to one's problems, but there was something more to him. Laura suspected that he wouldn't think twice about going the extra mile in order to help a friend in trouble.  
  
Mac was the same way. Laura suspected he had a soft spot for the underdog, and she and Jonathan were certainly that. He was sincere in his insistence that she and Jonathan stay with him until they were out of danger - that was something she sensed right off - and he showed not one hint of going back on his word. Still, she couldn't be sure, but she thought he had a secret or two to hide. He'd been behaving a bit oddly at times since before dinner. Laura couldn't figure it out.   
  
She wished Adam Pierson was more like his friends. He did everything but come right out and accuse her of plotting against them. Or, more to the point, against him. Every thing he said and did screamed out the fact that he hated her. What made him so freaking paranoid? She was tempted to come right out and ask him, but she sensed she'd be lucky to get more than two words out of him. Maybe, if she had her pad and pencils, she could work out her confusion and anger over his behavior by sketching him . . . no, that wouldn't work. She'd still be frustrated when she was done. And it'd be a waste of paper.  
  
It was sometime after midnight when she finally managed to fall into something resembling sleep, and even then her mind refused to rest, filling her dreams with visions too haunting and too substantial to be ignored . . .  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
  
  
The dark brown car sped down the road, despite the heavy snow and wind. She was afraid that, moving as fast as it was, the car would slip and spin out of control . . .  
  
All of a sudden, her eyes snapped open, and she found herself gasping for breath. Her fingers clutched at the rough white fabric covering her. What happened to the car she was in? When did it disappear? And where was she now? What was she doing before she got there? She couldn't even think with that bright light overhead. Her eyelids closed themselves against the blinding glare . . .  
  
Without warning, the curve in the road was there. Her body jerked as the car swerved right, left, and finally around and around. The car must have hit something then, for they were all airborne, the car viciously rotating head over wheels . . .  
  
Slowly, awareness came to her. She was in a room some place, the car gone again. The smooth coldness of the flat surface beneath her matched the temperature of the room. But what was she lying on? It wasn't a bed, that was for sure. Beds did not have hard metal mattresses. Yet, whatever she was covered with sure felt like a sheet . . .  
  
Before she knew it, the car crash landed. The front caved inward as it skidded into something narrow and hard. Someone was screaming. A woman. She heard her off in the distance. And there was a baby crying. She tried to reach out for the baby, but she couldn't. Something was wrong, terribly wrong . . .  
  
Wait a minute. She was completely naked under that sheet! And it was freezing in that room! Where were they keeping her clothes? They couldn't just let her run around without clothes, could they? She'd get sick. She wanted to move her arms, to pull the sheet tight around her so she could get up and look for something to wear, but try as she might, she couldn't. Her body was just too weak.  
  
Cautiously, she looked around, her eyes taking in the white, tiled walls around her. Somewhere there was the faint sound of metal clinking against metal. Of course. That must be it. She was in an operating room. But why was she still awake? Didn't they give her enough anesthesia? She had to open her mouth, before the doctor began cutting into her . . .  
  
She spoke. She must have spoken, for she managed to make her mouth move, but nothing came out. Still, she had to have said something, for a blurry face soon filled her vision, then two, then more. All in all, half a dozen people stood over her, all wearing funny bluish-green shirts with V-shaped necks, all of them making hushed, excited comments. Why could she hear their voices, when she couldn't hear her own? What was wrong with her in the first place? And that baby, she had to get to that baby . . .  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
"No!"  
  
Laura shot straight up in her makeshift bed, instantly wide awake. She let her eyes adjust to the darkness of Mac's loft before she directed them on Jonathan. Good. Her shout didn't wake him up. Her gaze fell on Mac and Adam. They, too, slept soundly, unaware that she had made any noise at all.  
  
Stupid dreams. It was all she could do to remind herself that they weren't real, that what she saw were only tortured images from her own mind. She wished they would just go away. Laura swung her feet out so that they touched the floor. Maybe she could sneak into the bathroom and run a wet washcloth over her neck and face. The collar of her nightshirt stuck to her skin, and she could feel beads of sweat clinging to her cheeks, her forehead, even her scalp.  
  
She heard Jonathan stir, and soon his thin cry could be heard throughout the loft. She had to get to him before he woke their host and his friend up. That would be the last thing she and Jonathan needed, to be kicked out for being too loud.  
  
Jonathan's carrier sat on the coffee table, within arm's reach of the couch. Laura leaned toward her brother, ready to lift him into her arms . . .  
  
The dizziness hit her without warning. She pressed both hands against her temples and squeezed her eyes shut against the pain, but like every time before, the pain was gone before she knew it. Damn it all, why wouldn't it just stop altogether? She had too much going on to worry about having to deal with a possibly serious medical problem on top of it all.  
  
Jonathan didn't calm down when she picked him up, like he normally did. She quickly felt his seat - bone dry . And he never woke up in the middle of the night because he was hungry. "Did you have a bad dream, too?" she whispered to him as she positioned him over her shoulder and rubbed his back.  
  
Behind Laura, Duncan and Methos were both awakened by the sensation of another Immortal. Duncan reached for his katana. A covert glance at Laura - she was tending to Jonathan, and not paying attention to him - and he rose from the bed, creeping stealthily toward the door that led outside. Methos followed suit.  
  
A glint of light flashed just out of Laura's peripheral vision. She turned her head to the right, where Adam and Mac were slithering toward the outside door. Even in the darkness, she could tell that wasn't exactly a toy Mac was carrying. She opened her mouth to ask what was going on.  
  
Duncan caught Laura just in time, and a quick finger to his lips silenced her before she said a word. He then turned his attention back to the door.  
  
By the time he and Methos reached the short hallway, the sensation was gone. So, Duncan guessed, was their nocturnal visitor. He wanted to be sure, however. With his free hand, Duncan slowly unlocked the door and pulled it open just a crack, in case he was mistaken about the other Immortal's having left. His eyes peered out the door and darted around. No one there. The stranger was gone.  
  
He opened the door the rest of the way and looked down. There, on the landing, sat a package wrapped in plain brown paper. Duncan leaned the katana against the wall, stooped down, and picked the package up. He cautiously felt around the edges - no strings or wires that might set off a booby trap, and no ominous ticking. What was it doing there?   
  
"Let me see that." Laura's voice startled both Duncan and Methos. They whirled around and found themselves stunned into silence by the sight of her saber in her right hand. She must have retrieved it while their backs were turned.  
  
Laura, on the other hand, was perfectly oblivious to their stares, and her attention settled fully on the package in Mac's hand. Setting her sword next to Mac's, she approached him and took the package off his hands. Carefully, she peeled the brown wrapping away, exposing a rectangular wooden box with ornate scrollwork carved on the sides and a Madonna portrait on the fire-scorched lid. Her left hand reached around and felt a knob in the back of the box. She turned the knob and opened the lid. The opening strains of "Ave Maria" resonated throughout the loft.  
  
"My mother's favorite song," she murmured thoughtfully.  
  
"What's that?"  
  
As he spoke, Adam pointed to a folded-up sheet of white paper that sat in the music box's velvet lining. Handing the box back to Mac, Laura took the paper and unfolded it. A lone sentence appeared there, and as soon as she read it, she felt all the color drain from her face.  
  
Whatever was on that paper, Duncan knew at once, must have terrified Laura. Within half a second her face went completely white, and the paper fell from her hand. He barely had time to get out of the way before she raced back into the living room, pulled Jonathan from his carrier, and hugged him to her.  
  
"What does it say?"   
  
Momentarily brought up short by Methos' question, Duncan had to force his thoughts away from Laura and back to the source of her fright. Leaning over, he snatched the paper from the floor and silently scanned the bold statement:  
  
  
  
I'll let you watch as I cut off the boy's head.  
  
"Well," Methos demanded impatiently, "what is it? Another death threat?"  
  
Duncan nodded. "And this time, the stalker wrote it by hand."  
  
Both pairs of eyes fell on Laura, who was sitting on the sofa, still holding Jonathan in a protective embrace. But who was she protecting, him, or herself? 


	8. Chapter Seven

Chapter Seven  
  
"I don't know what you want me to say."  
  
Surprisingly, she didn't sound the least apologetic. Duncan cast a side glance at Laura as she sat in a chair next to his table-like desk, facing him and Methos with an unwavering, somewhat defiant gaze. Jonathan's carrier rested on the desk, and her left hand absently rocked it in an effort to keep Jonathan quiet. Her right hand sat palm down on her knee. Defensive, maybe - Duncan got the distinct impression that she deliberately kept her brother close to her, as if he were some sort of shield - but certainly not remorseful. Duncan had the music box in his hand; he placed it on the coffee table, next to the saber. That was another thing. She didn't even bat an eye when it came to bringing the saber out of its hiding place. Nor did she show any unease about possibly having to use it. But why did she think she'd need it? He was already armed, and Methos was right behind him, ready to act, if for no other reason than out of self preservation. Didn't Laura know that? Something didn't add up here.  
  
Duncan sat down on the arm of the sofa, still studying her. Had she known it, Laura could have gained Joe's help without resorting to a forged death threat. All she had to do was drop her father's name. That would have been more than enough. No, something was definitely not right.  
  
He let his eyes fall on Methos, who was pacing angrily not five feet in front of Laura, his arms folded tightly across his chest, gripping the second death threat in one fist. That threat was the real deal. Not even the best actress in the world could have produced such a genuine reaction to it, the way Laura had done. Methos evidently didn't see things that way, however.  
  
Even as that thought crossed Duncan's mind, his friend stopped pacing and glared at Laura. "Why did you do it?" Methos demanded.  
  
"I already told you . . ." she began wearily.  
  
Methos interrupted her. "I know, I know. You were scared, you had no idea what Joe was like, if he would help you. Now, let's try it again. And maybe, just maybe, try the truth. Why did you do it?" Laura opened her mouth to respond, but Methos cut her off again. "No, don't answer that. Instead, tell us something else. How did that music box get here? Is someone really after your brother? And what are you doing with that?" He pointed back toward the saber. "You know what it is, don't you?"  
  
"No," Laura retorted sarcastically, "but I'm sure you'll enlighten me."  
  
Duncan tried to intervene. "Perhaps if we discuss this calmly . . ."  
  
"All right," Methos said through clenched teeth as he started pacing again. His eyes never left Laura. "Let's start with the saber. Where did you get it?"  
  
He wasn't backing down. Neither was Laura. She met his glare head-on, and without realizing it, she began rocking Jonathan more roughly. "I refuse to justify myself for you, Adam. You won't believe me, anyway, so what's the point?"  
  
Duncan believed he was the only one in the room who noticed Jonathan's whimpers growing louder. "Lower your voices!" he hissed at Laura and Methos. "You're upsetting the baby!"  
  
Laura responded by letting her hand drift up and caressing Jonathan's cheek, and Methos managed a ground-out "Fine." Duncan was dumbfounded that the older man actually looked at him when he spoke. Methos turned right back to Laura, though, clearly not through with his interrogation. "Well, Laura?"  
  
"My father gave it to me. He said that I would need it one day, to protect Jonathan."  
  
Methos wasn't buying that for a second. "Is that so?" he sneered. "And have you had to 'protect' him?"  
  
Laura rose from her chair, ready to go after Methos with her bare hands. "Until now, no, but I'm beginning to wonder!"  
  
"What's that supposed to mean?" Methos questioned her sharply.  
  
"I don't know." Laura's voice dripped with contempt. "Maybe it has something to do with the fact that you've been set on hating me from the moment we met!"  
  
By now, Duncan had it. "Enough!" he shouted as he shot to his feet. Both Methos and Laura were stunned into silence; even Jonathan stilled his cries. Lowering his voice, Duncan said, "Laura, I want you to think very hard. Did your father ever explain to you exactly why you would need a sword?"  
  
Laura pondered the question as she resumed her seat. "Ever since I was little, he'd been telling me that," she told Duncan. "He was always saying that he and Mom wouldn't be around forever, that someday Jonathan would be put in my care. He even put me in fencing lessons when I turned twelve. I got the sword for my sixteenth birthday."  
  
She knew . . . Before that thought completed itself, Duncan remembered Laura's reaction to sensing the Immortal in the hotel lobby, and to picking up Methos outside. What was going on?  
  
"Why do you ask?" she ventured, her voice a tiny sound in the tense stillness. "Is Jonathan in that much danger?"  
  
Duncan saw it again. The wild frenzy in her eyes. The same look she wore when she walked into Joe's - Duncan did not fail to notice that in his astonishment over Jonathan's presence - and during the drive to and from the hotel. She may have lied to get Joe's help, she may have a sword which, she'd been told, she'd have to use someday, but that look scared him. Only a new Immortal was capable of it.  
  
"You both are," he said at last.  
  
She regarded him for a long moment, as if she were contemplating what to say next. If she wanted to ask him why she and Jonathan were being stalked, she had the perfect opening to do so. Just a word from her, and he would be one hundred percent convinced that she had no real clue what she was. He wanted to give her the chance to prove her innocence.  
  
"I guess we'd better go, then." She stayed right where she was. "I don't want anyone . . ." she tossed a sidelong glance at Methos, " . . . getting hurt because of us."  
  
Duncan cursed silently and braced himself for another round of verbal battle.  
  
"Don't worry about us," Methos quipped snidely, "We can take care of ourselves."  
  
"I'm sure you can." The tone of Laura's response matched Methos' perfectly.  
  
Duncan groaned and rolled his eyes. "Don't start that again.."  
  
"Start what?" Methos asked blankly.  
  
Declared Laura, "I didn't start anything."  
  
"You're both behaving like children," Duncan yelled, "and I want you to knock it off!"  
  
"Sorry." This was said in unison. At last the two were together on something.  
  
"Now," Duncan continued, "I'll call Joe in the morning and let him know what happened. In the meantime, let's try to get some sleep."  
  
Only Jonathan succeeded in doing that.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
It was past four in the morning when Joe got home. The first thing he did when he walked in the door, tired as he was, was to haul out his notebook computer, power it up, and run his diagnostics program. He needed to make one more attempt at accessing the Watcher database before heading off to bed. Hopefully, he would have better luck than he did at the tavern.   
  
The Watcher symbol popped up on the screen, along with a message that he had new mail. Joe opened up his e-mail program and clicked on his Inbox. Hmm, a post from Chloe Young. Joe never met her, but Young's name was well circulated throughout the organization. The woman had an amazing talent for finding Immortals when no one else could. A couple of years back, she managed to trace down a Spaniard by the name of Alejandro de los Reyes, an Immortal the Watchers considered long dead but who had been splitting his time between New Orleans and in Belize for the past two centuries, using half a dozen aliases along the way. What did Young want from him? Joe wondered as he opened her message:   
  
"I've been doing background work on a couple of Immortals who were last seen in the company of a former Watcher named Daniel Kessler and his wife Melissa. Since you were an acquaintance of Kessler, I would appreciate greatly anything you can tell me about him. Please call me at the number below."  
  
Joe leaned forward intently and reread the message. Young had to have the name wrong. Dan's wife was named Linda. Ex-wife, actually. They were divorced back in seventy-six. Who was this Melissa, then, and how did Dan meet her?   
  
It was too late to call Young, but Joe decided to do it anyway. He reached for his cell phone and dialed the number she included at the end of her message. He hoped she would forgive him for waking her up at such a god-awful hour, but with Laura and Jonathan on the run from who knows what Immortal, he didn't have much time. Besides, a hunch told him that he and Young were each looking at a third of the puzzle, and if they compared notes, the final third would materialize.   
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
  
  
By the time he was done showering and getting dressed for the day, Duncan was no closer to figuring Laura out than he was the night before. To make matters more confusing, she had retreated back into the persona she had portrayed yesterday afternoon, calm on the outside, yet with a distinct glint of apprehension in her eye which she couldn't hide. And she said nothing about what had transpired the night before, either. It was as if last night had never happened.   
  
Once breakfast was cleared away and the dishes washed, Laura set about giving Jonathan a bath, and Methos occupied himself with a deck of cards at the desk. If last night changed anything, Duncan thought, it changed the way those two treated each other. They appeared to be done venting all their hostility and no longer needed a convenient excuse to pretend to ignore each other. As a matter of fact, when it came down to it, they were both so preoccupied with what they were doing that they paid him no attention at all.   
  
Which is why, when Dawson called, Duncan felt fairly comfortable with the decision he was about to make. The Watcher, his tone suggesting a sense of extreme urgency, said he needed to see Duncan at the bar as soon as possible.  
  
"You found something?" Duncan ventured hopefully.  
  
"Yeah," Dawson responded, "but it's news better told in person."  
  
"Okay, I'm on my way." Duncan hung up the phone and went for his coat.  
  
"Where you off to?" Methos asked, looking up from his card game.  
  
"Joe's," Mac replied, as if the single word would answer any and all questions. "I'll be back in a little while."  
  
"That's great," Laura commented as she used her hand to scoop water over Jonathan's shoulders and back. "Just let me finish up here, and Jonathan and I will join you downstairs."  
  
Declared Duncan, "Laura, I don't think that's a good idea."  
  
Laura pulled Jonathan out of the sink and sat him on an oversized towel, ready to dry him off. She stopped what she was doing and fixed eyes narrowed with suspicion on Duncan. "Why not?" she queried evenly.  
  
Duncan pulled his coat from the coat tree in the hall and shrugged it on. "Have you forgotten that someone out there wants you and your brother dead?" he asked in return.  
  
"No, but I'll never find out who it is unless I talk to Joe."  
  
"Don't worry. I'll let you know what he's found out." Then, before Laura had a chance to argue the point any further, he turned to Methos. "Keep an eye on them."  
  
Duncan walked into the elevator. Methos joined him just before he pulled the slatted wooden door closed. "You don't expect to leave me alone with her," he said as the elevator lowered, "do you?"  
  
"Don't do anything to antagonize her or make her want to take off. It's not safe for her out there."  
  
"It's not safe for me in here," countered Methos.  
  
"Methos, do I have to remind you that if she wanted to, she could have taken our heads last night, while we were asleep?"  
  
Methos refused to back down. "Need I remind you that she lied to us?"  
  
Very well, if the man wanted to be stubborn. The elevator stopped, and Duncan raised the door, allowing Methos to step off first. As he followed, he said, "You would have done the same thing in her position." Duncan paused, as a new thought occurred to him. "You know, I'm beginning to think you're taking this way too personally."  
  
He knew that he hit a nerve when Methos scoffed, "Am I?"  
  
"Why are you letting Laura get to you?" 


	9. Chapter Eight

Chapter Eight  
  
Northeast Gaul, 493 AD  
  
"Please! You must help us!"  
  
Methos gawked wordlessly at Lady Alice for what seemed an eternity. It had been close to five hundred years since he came between a man and wife, and if he did as Lady Alice begged him, he'd be interfering once again. Dilemmas. He couldn't stand them, not when they happened to him. Especially the moral ones. Damn.  
  
"My lady . . ." he finally began, but a noise from outside the chapel halted him mid-sentence.  
  
Lady Alice must have heard it, too, for her eyes followed his as they searched for the noise's source. Voices, men's voices, raised in heated emotion. Methos couldn't make out what they were saying. "Who are they?" Lady Alice asked in a worried tone.  
  
"I don't know," Methos replied. "No visitors are expected." He glanced back at Lady Alice. "Stay here," he ordered her.  
  
He strode across the chapel and out the door, leaving Lady Alice to stare after him.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Methos hid behind an obliging tree in the night-darkened courtyard before he could be seen by either of the two men standing by the monastery gates. One of the friars - Lady Alice's brother? - was arguing with the Chieftain's lieutenant. It would have done Methos no good for the lieutenant to learn he was here; the man was only all too happy to help the midwife out by heading the mob that chased Methos from the village. Methos cocked an ear, ready to pick up anything that might clarify the situation with Lady Alice. Or, more to the point, that might get her away from the monastery and out of his life.  
  
"Please, sir," he heard the balding friar beg. "We are but a small order. We value our privacy, our sanctuary."  
  
"My Chieftain values your sanctuary, as well," returned the lieutenant. "He has been informed that his wife and child were led astray and commanded to come here."  
  
The friar hastily crossed himself. "There is no woman here, and no child."  
  
"I thought your God forbade you to lie, holy man," the lieutenant sneered, his face a mere inches from the friar's. "A woman bearing an infant was seen entering this place earlier tonight."  
  
"I-it is true, a woman and child did come here, just as you say." The friar was sputtering in abject fear by this point. "B-but they have already gone."  
  
"Then you don't mind if my men look around."  
  
"I . . . I-i cannot allow that."  
  
"On what grounds?" The lieutenant's voice was filled with disdain and implied threats.  
  
"Th-this is holy ground. All those who enter are guaranteed safety within our walls."  
  
Methos had to give the friar credit. The man had summoned up at least some courage to stand up to the menacing lieutenant. Too bad it wouldn't make any difference.  
  
The lieutenant, on the other hand, didn't care for what the friar said. "It doesn't matter," he said, simply brushing the friar's words aside. "Soon, my Chieftain will recover his wife and child, and we will be on our way."  
  
The friar inquired, as if terrified of the answer, "W-w-what will your Chieftain do once he finds them?"  
  
"That is none of your concern, holy man. Now, get out of my way!"  
  
Methos felt his jaw drop. Lady Alice was a devout practitioner of Catholic Christianity, and while the Chieftain himself did not follow the dictates of his wife's religion, he ordered all his men to respect the rites and customs of the Church. Moreover, the Chieftain had to know where his wife's brother lived. What did the lieutenant think he was going to accomplish? If the newly-converted Emperor caught wind of this incident, or, worse yet, the Church . . . Methos didn't know what the consequences would be, but he shuddered at the possibilities.  
  
Meanwhile, the more immediate outcome, though no less dire, could be deduced easily enough. If the Chieftain was so intent on locating his errant family, Lady Alice faced nothing short of what she dreaded most, abandonment, possibly death, for herself and the baby Clothilde. What would happen to Clothilde if she were to meet her first death so soon? He'd never seen one so young become Immortal, and he never wanted to. All this, along with the promise he made to never come between a man and wife, ran around and around in Methos' mind, paralyzing him to the point where he couldn't make a decision at all.  
  
Until the decision was made for him. A large hand clamped down on Methos' shoulder and spun him around. Without warning, Methos found himself staring up into the rage-filled eyes of the Chieftain himself.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
The Chieftain had positioned his army right outside the monastery gates, and it took the lieutenant and three other soldiers to subdue Methos to the point where they could bind him hand and foot. That, a slick explanation of how Methos was a heretic bent on corrupting the friars - Methos found that one particularly funny, since the Chieftain himself still practiced pagan rituals - and a heavy bribe to the abbot, and Methos was "escorted" from the safety of the monastery.  
  
No one spoke to him on the trek back to the village. Not the Chieftain, who headed the party, not the lieutenant, who brought up the rear, not the guards who surrounded him. Even Lady Alice, who rode beside her husband, the baby Clothilde in her arms, remained silent, her head bowed as if in fear. Fear of whom? The Chieftain wasn't exactly glowering at her or making any other ominous overtures toward her. Perhaps, Methos reasoned, the Chieftain didn't want to air whatever quarrel they had openly.  
  
On the other hand, it could have been shame that kept her gaze lowered. Was she forced - worse yet, did she volunteer - to go to the monastery in an attempt to draw Methos out? Methos had already concluded that her brother communicated with his sister often, and told her of new recruits to his order. She would have no trouble remembering the man who spent time in her husband's army.  
  
As if any of that mattered. Methos cursed himself repeatedly: one, for staying among the Franks longer than he had originally planned; two, for allowing himself to become concerned about Lady Alice and her daughter; and three, for letting her ladyship gull him into taking her part against the midwife.   
  
There was no building yet set aside for prisoners, so Methos' wrists and ankles were tied securely to a long, thick pole set deeply in the ground in the middle of the village square. The townspeople made excuses to come and taunt him, and to throw sticks, rocks, and other projectiles at him. He was glad he still wore his monk's robe. It covered most of the places where he was hit.  
  
The Chieftain did not deign to stop by, having decreed back at the monastery that Methos' trial would be held at sundown the day after the party returned to the village. The lieutenant followed the Chieftain's example, and the midwife wasn't even around to torment him. Methos assumed she was off performing her duties in a neighboring hamlet. Whatever the reason, her absence suited Methos just fine. He didn't trust himself to not say what was on his mind to her.  
  
He did, however, receive a visit from an unexpected quarter. Once the villagers grew tired of their sport and drifted off, Lady Alice came up to him. This time, she was alone. No Clothilde to hide behind.  
  
"Did you come to ask for forgiveness?" he growled at her.  
  
She eyed him warily. "They mean to kill you," she told him matter-of-factly.  
  
"I . . ." he pulled against the ropes that bound him to the pole " . . . gathered as much."  
  
"It is the midwife's fault."  
  
"Is that so?" Methos questioned derisively. "Was she the one who told you to run to the monastery?"  
  
"I had no other choice," Lady Alice insisted. "I did not, I do not, want to place Clothilde in danger."  
  
Something in the way she said Clothilde's name made Methos take notice. He studied her for a minute or two, and he saw it. It was in her eyes. Lady Alice did not lose her mind, she did not suffer from the delusion that the baby found in the forest was her own flesh and blood. No. She was perfectly aware of what was going on around her. She engineered it. Why couldn't he see that before?  
  
"My lady," he ventured, "did you ever think of telling your husband the truth, and asking him to adopt Clothilde?"  
  
Lady Alice drew herself up. Fixing Methos with a level stare, she replied, "I see it is pointless to talk to you. Clothilde is my daughter. Anyone in the village will tell you so."  
  
She walked away, then, with all the bearing of a queen. As he watched her go, Methos realized where he went wrong. Whatever her claims, whether made sincerely or as part of her plan, she was married to the most powerful man in the village, and few would contradict her.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
"Bring the accused forth." At the Chieftain's command, two soldiers cut the bindings that held Methos to the pole and dragged him into the center of the crowd gathered in front of the Chieftain's hut. "Let him go." They released him; more to the point, they shoved him to the ground, and he felt the pain of the rocks and pebbles that cut into his knees. "Lieutenant, read the charges."  
  
The lieutenant stood to the Chieftain's left. He unrolled the scroll he held and read its contents to the crowd: "One, the accused is said to have foretold the death of the natural daughter of the Chieftain and the Lady Alice. Two, when it became clear that the child would survive her difficult birth, the accused cast a spell upon the Lady Alice, making her believe that her true daughter had died. Three, he also used the dark arts to persuade a village woman that she found a changeling in the forest to replace the child he claimed was dead. Finally, he seduced the Lady Alice into taking her child and fleeing the village on the false grounds that she and the child were in mortal danger."  
  
The Chieftain focused his glare on Methos. "How does the accused answer to the charges?"  
  
"I'm not gong to answer to anything," Methos responded heatedly. "I've done nothing wrong!"  
  
The Chieftain ignored his protest. "The witness will step forward." Methos wasn't in the least surprised to see the old midwife break through the throng of people. "Explain what happened the day of the birthing," the Chieftain instructed her.  
  
"As soon as the babe was delivered," the midwife all but crowed - she was clearly in her element as the center of attention - "he pulled me aside and told me the infant would die, her mother along with her."  
  
"How did you respond?" the Chieftain asked her.  
  
"I warned him not to say such things, but he would not listen to me."  
  
"Did anything further take place?" questioned the Chieftain.  
  
"Yes." The midwife's gaze never left Methos. With her eyes, she was daring him to challenge her. He wouldn't give her the satisfaction "Three days later, he visited the Lady Alice and counseled her to give up hope for he daughter's survival."  
  
"That's a lie!!" Methos yelled, unable to stop himself. One of the soldiers standing behind him struck the back of his head with a club, stunning him. He heard the rest of the "trial" though ears that buzzed with pain.  
  
"The next morning, your daughter was dead," the midwife continued, "and the changeling was put in her place." Here she paused, to give her words the fullest dramatic effect they could possibly have. "Or so he would have us believe."  
  
"The midwife is lying to you," Methos heard himself say. "She lies to all of you. She's always hated me and now she has found a way to rid herself of me."  
  
"Quiet, sorcerer!" the midwife commanded. "We'll have none of your spell-casting here!"   
  
The Chieftain raised his right hand, silencing everyone. "That is enough," he proclaimed. "I am ready to pass judgment.  
  
"The accused is hereby found guilty of using dark magic in order cause chaos in our village, and it is the sentence of this court that he be taken to the edge of the forest and beheaded, his body to be left to the scavenger birds."  
  
Methos gulped, unable to help himself. Three and half thousand years of escaping the blades of all his Immortal opponents, only to die like this, like a common criminal? It can't be happening!  
  
"My lord!" Lady Alice's voice cut into Methos' terror like his sharpest sword. "You cannot do that!"  
  
The Chieftain turned to his right, where he faced his wife's stare. "What do you mean, woman?"   
  
"Beheading is too good for one such as him. Let him be taken to the forest, stab him in the belly, and watch him die a tortured death. He must be made to suffer."  
  
Methos made a careful study of the ground. He refused to let anyone see the hope her words had given him. Lady Alice had no clue what she was sparing him. Let her think she was getting revenge for his claims about Clothilde. It would be the only revenge he would have on her. 


	10. Chapter Nine

Chapter Nine  
  
Seacouver, 1995  
  
Methos drew a deep sigh. "That was the one and only time I've ever been close to a baby who would become Immortal."  
  
"Well," reasoned Duncan, "the Chieftain obviously took her advice."  
  
"That's not the issue here."  
  
"Would you mind telling me what the issue is?"  
  
Methos fixed Mac with a level look. He said, "Lady Alice used me to make herself look like an innocent victim. And do you think that the Chieftain, a man set on having a male heir, would have accepted Clothilde, a girl who didn't even share his blood, as his own?"  
  
Duncan smiled. Then he laughed. He could tell Methos wasn't pleased by that reaction. He didn't care. "What, may I ask, is so funny, MacLeod?"  
  
"You," Duncan replied honestly. "From the way you tell it, you were more worried about Clothilde's head than your own."  
  
"Much good that did me," Methos muttered.   
  
Duncan still felt the grin on his features, but he tried to temper it when he saw Methos' scowl deepen. "Methos," he inquired, more seriously, "have you tried to find out if Clothilde is still alive?"  
  
"No," admitted the older Immortal. "Not that I haven't wanted to. I just haven't had the time."  
  
Methos' fear of what he might find hung unspoken between the two men. "You should try anyway," recommended Duncan.  
  
It was a suggestion that would go unheeded, and they both knew it. "Maybe someday," Methos said glumly.  
  
Duncan glanced at his watch. "In the meantime," he advised, "I have to be going. Why don't you go back upstairs and check on Laura and Jonathan?"  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Burke got up at the crack of dawn. It was his habit, ever since his Army days. Besides, he had a lot to do today. He began with breakfast in his room. The hotel went out of its way to provide room service for him at such an early hour, before the hotel restaurant was officially open for the day. Two slices of toast with butter, no jam, a scrambled egg, and orange juice. That was another part of his routine. He hadn't altered his breakfast selection in over twenty years.  
  
Then a shower and his usual attire: dark pants, dark shirt, dark boots. Burke reached for his overcoat, which he had hung in the closet. He ditched the camouflage jacket not long after that night, and now wore the dingy brown. He preferred it; it concealed his sword better.  
  
The sword. Ah, yes, he ought to tend to that before he left his hotel room. He kept the broadsword in a scabbard hidden in the folds of his coat. He pulled the sword out and retrieved a sharpening stone from his suitcase. Sitting on the corner of the bed, he began running the stone along the sharp edge of the blade, using long, even strokes. The repetitive motion calmed him, in a way. It helped him channel his energies and focus on the very reason he was there to begin with . . .  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Youngstown, Ohio, 1973  
  
He and Melissa stared at each other for what seemed like forever. He despised the way she cowered from him, yet at the same time he knew she should be doing just that. Whatever she had to fear from him, she damn well deserved it.  
  
"Well," he demanded menacingly, "what have you got to say for yourself, slut?"  
  
"David, please. Let me explain. the twins, I found them in front of . . ."  
  
"Forget it!" he commanded. "I don't want to hear it!"  
  
He saw the glimmer of desperation in her eyes, and he wanted to smother it. "B-but D-david," she stammered, "you need to hear me out."  
  
"Are you deaf?!" he screamed. "I said I don't want to hear it!!"  
  
Before he realized it, he was on her. A quick, vicious back sweep with his hand, and the music box flew out of her hands. He grabbed her and shook her violently before shoving her out of his way. She went careening into the dresser, her right shoulder making instant contact with the corner. She stumbled but didn't fall, and her left hand gripped her sore shoulder. He didn't care. All of a sudden, Melissa didn't matter anymore. His mind was suddenly clear of everything except one conscious thought. There was another way he could make her suffer.  
  
The twins were both awakened by the shouting, and one of them was wailing incessantly. He didn't pay attention to which one it was, or to the strange feeling he got when he came close to them. It didn't make any difference to him. He reached for one of the two pillows lying in the crib and pressed it down over the wailing one's face. Just a little pressure, and . . .  
  
Pain struck him in the back of his head, blind, unyielding pain. he felt himself sinking to the floor even as he turned around. He was puzzled by the sight of the music box back in Melissa's hand. How did it get there? Then, out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a small flame making its way rapidly across the top edge of the other pillow in the crib. He vaguely recalled that there was a lit candle on the dresser when he stormed into to room. Did the candle fall over? He couldn't puzzle it out. His head hurt too much, and he was tired all of a sudden. All he wanted to do was lie down . . .  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Seacouver, 1995  
  
By the time Methos returned to the loft, Laura had Jonathan dressed and laying on his blanket, which was spread out on Mac's bed. She hadn't noticed him, and he took advantage of the opportunity to study her. She was lightly tickling her brother's feet, softly singing an old lullaby to him:  
  
"Hush, little baby, don't say a word, sister's gonna buy you a mocking bird . . ."  
  
Methos doubted that she noticed the substitution she made in the song's lyrics. It occurred to him, as he watched her and Jonathan, that her guard had slipped completely. She was even smiling, a small yet open smile that showed the pleasure she was getting from playing with her brother. This Laura he could easily imagine as being helpless and innocent. This was the Laura that MacLeod saw.  
  
He gave himself a mental shake a split second before she looked up and saw him standing there. Her eyes, so full of the emotion she held for Jonathan, clouded over the instant they registered his presence, and the smile on her lips disappeared. She didn't say anything, however, shifting her attention back to her brother. She began tickling his feet again, but didn't return to her singing. "So," he ventured, a tone of false brightness in his voice, "it's to be like this?" She ignored him. "I can take it if you can." With that, he went back to his card game.  
  
Shuffle, lay out the cards, turn a few over, try to move one stack onto another . . . Methos couldn't concentrate. Laura may have gone silent, but she still distracted him. Drove him nuts, if truth be told. He stared blankly at the cards on the desk.  
  
"Black nine on red ten."  
  
Laura's voice made him jump. She was standing right next to him, her arms folded loosely across her chest. "I beg your pardon?" he asked her.  
  
Her right index finger pointed to the card that sat face up on the fourth column of the seven he'd spread out on the table. "Black nine on red ten." Her finger moved to the card on top the first column.  
  
"Thanks," he said flatly as he moved the appropriate card. Silence fell again as he pretended to be engrossed in the game.  
  
"Adam?"  
  
"What?" he responded reluctantly.  
  
"It isn't fair, is it?"  
  
He turned over the top three cards of the stack he held in his hand. "What isn't fair?"  
  
"Jonathan and I were the ones who came to Joe for help. Shouldn't we be the ones talking to him now?"  
  
Methos shrugged. "If you say so."  
  
She came around the desk and stood in front of him. "You wouldn't have anything to do with that," she questioned archly, "would you?"  
  
He carried on with his game, as if she weren't right there. "What do you mean?"  
  
She was staring down at him. He didn't have to look to feel her eyes boring into the top of his head. "Yesterday, when I got out of the shower, Joe couldn't get out of here fast enough. This morning, Mac makes excuses to keep me from seeing him."  
  
"Mac has a legitimate reason for telling you to stay here."  
  
"And for telling you to keep an eye on me," she added pointedly.  
  
"I assume you have a point to make," Methos remarked evenly.  
  
She leaned toward him, her hands flattened on the top of the desk. Her shadow fell across the cards. "Did you say something to make Joe change his mind about helping me?"  
  
Methos looked up and met her scrutinizing gaze with one of his own. "Now, why would I want to do that?" he said blandly.  
  
Laura's dark eyes glinted with barely suppressed rage as she bent forward, her face inches away from his own. "Come on, Adam, you've made it perfectly clear we'll never be the best of friends. Why do you have it in for me?"  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Vancouver  
  
Whenever she had to do her work at a research facility, Chloe liked to show up around seven in the morning, get her work done as quickly as possible, then retreat back to her hotel room and computer. Public places just didn't suit her. However, it was well past eight when Chloe finally stumbled in this morning. She blamed that on her continued jet lag and that wee-hours-of-the-morning phone call from Joe Dawson. She wished he would've waited until daylight, or e-mailed her back, but he seemed to think there was some sort of emergency. Whatever. She didn't ask him why time was of the essence. Field guys always thought everything was urgent, and if anyone behaved like a stereotypical field guy, it was Joe Dawson.  
  
He started by telling her that the younger Kesslers were in Seacouver, where he was based. Then, after telling her about the discrepancy in the first name of Daniel Kessler's wife, he had her back in the database, looking up anyone, Immortal or not, with the first name Melissa. That's when it hit her. She knew she'd seen the older woman in the newspaper photo before. She'd be damned if she would tell Dawson how she recognized the woman, though. A story that she'd come across the woman's picture on another research project seemed to satisfy him well enough, that and a promise to create files for both the Kessler children. She also promised to copy and fax over everything she found on them so far.   
  
She was doing just that when Clayton Ross approached her. "Joe Dawson called me this morning. He said he couldn't reach you on your cell phone."  
  
"I shut it off after I spoke with him last night," she explained, a shame-faced smile on her lips. "I needed the sleep too much."  
  
"Don't worry about it," said Ross. "He just wanted to thank you for the stuff you found on the Kessler kids."  
  
Chloe recognized a hint when she hard one. "He told me that they were under the protection of his assignment." She didn't want to admit to him that she didn't bother asking Dawson who his assignment was.  
  
"Yeah, they are. He's trying to set them up with a field agent in case they move on." Ross paused. "He even asked me if you wouldn't be interested in doing that."  
  
Chloe made sure she displayed a look of mock horror on her face. "Good God, no. I have all the work I can handle already."  
  
Ross laughed. "It's only a thought. I'm sure he'll find someone soon."  
  
She let herself relax visibly. "Anyway, I've got to finish sending this stuff . . ." she indicated the pile of copies she made " . . . over to him, then I have to check my e-mail. My boss said he'd let me know when he needed me back east."  
  
"After you're done with that, stop by my office and brief me on the Kessler situation."  
  
"I'll do that."  
  
She watched as Ross turned to head back to his office. He was about ten feet away from his door when he tossed out behind him, "You know, Chloe, Dawson's assignment will take good care of them, probably even teach the girl a thing or two about using a blade. MacLeod's like that, I hear."  
  
Chloe thanked God that Ross couldn't see the expression on her face upon hearing that name.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Seacouver  
  
"Well?"  
  
This was not a conversation he wanted to have with Laura right now. "You're being paranoid," he told her.  
  
"No, I'm not. What are you hiding from me?"  
  
He wanted to feign ignorance, even though he knew she wouldn't buy it. "Where do you get the idea that I'm hiding something from you?"  
  
"You tell me."  
  
He set the cards in his hand down on the desk and sighed in resignation. "Laura," he began, "listen to me. You come into Joe's bar asking for his help and claiming he and your father are old friends, when they haven't spoken in years . . ."  
  
"And Joe still agreed to help," argued Laura.  
  
"You also forged a death threat in order to get that help."  
  
"I already explained that, if you'll remember."  
  
"So you did." Methos took a breath. "There's also the matter of your . . . weapon. Seems to me like you'll go to any length to get what you want."  
  
"Even kill?" she exclaimed in disbelief.  
  
Methos admitted, unwillingly, "The thought did cross my mind."  
  
"I think it did more than that." Laura stormed into the kitchen and yanked open the refrigerator door. "You had me convicted before I even had a chance to stand trial. I bet O.J. Simpson got better treatment from the Los Angeles police!"  
  
As she pulled out a plastic carton of orange juice and plunked it on the counter, Jonathan cried out, upset by his sister's raised voice. "Laura," Methos admonished, "your brother . . ."  
  
The orange juice momentarily forgotten, she raced over to the bed and lifted Jonathan into her arms, cradling him close and caressing him lightly. Once again, she became the girl he watched play with her baby brother. "Shh, sweetie, shh," she whispered to him. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you. I won't do it anymore. I promise."  
  
Jonathan responded quickly to her soothing and settled down, yet she still held on to him. "You're really worried about him," Methos inquired, "aren't you?"  
  
A brief flash, and it was gone again. The tender moment between brother and sister. It vanished the second Methos opened his mouth. He witnessed the hardening of Laura's face as she focused her eyes on him. However, she waited until she settled Jonathan back on the bed before she spoke. "What do you care?" she spat out as she walked back into the kitchen. She plucked a freshly washed glass from MacLeod's dish rack and set it on the counter next to the juice. She picked up the carton, twisted the cap open, and poured.  
  
"Laura?"  
  
"What?" she demanded as she finished filling the glass.  
  
She didn't look at him. For some reason, he wanted her to. "Forget it," he said after a tense pause.  
  
"I intend to." She closed the juice and returned it to the refrigerator. With glass in hand, she turned back toward her brother.  
  
It happened without warning. Laura must not have had a tight enough grip on the glass, or maybe it wasn't completely dry yet. Before she took two steps, the glass slipped from her hand and crashed on the floor, sending shattered pieces and orange juice flying all over. "Oh, crap!" she cried in dismay. "Mac's gonna kill me!"  
  
Her brother forgotten, Laura dropped to her knees and started picking up shards of broken glass. Methos joined her. "Here," he offered, reaching for the larger pieces as she tried collecting the smaller ones, "let me help."  
  
"No, no, I've got it."  
  
For once, she didn't bite his head off for his merely saying something to her. A rather nasty-looking fragment lay just out of his reach, and in going after it, Methos felt the right leg of his jeans grow wet from the spreading puddle of juice. He looked down at where his knee came in contact with the puddle, and wasn't watching where he put his hand. The next thing he knew, he was feeling a stabbing pain as the cut glass pierced his left palm.  
  
"Son of a bitch!"  
  
At the sound of his vehement curse, Laura's eyes shot up from what she was doing, and they instantly riveted themselves on the sight of him grasping his injured palm. "What happened, Adam? Are you all right?"  
  
The pain was already replaced by frustration at his own clumsiness. He let go of his hand long enough to remove the offending piece of glass from his palm. "I just nicked myself a little, that's all," he managed to explain through his self-anger as he stood up and went to the kitchen sink.   
  
"A little? There's blood running down your arm! Let me have a look at it."  
  
She joined him at the kitchen sink and turned on the faucet. "It's not necessary," Methos heard himself say. "I can take care of it."  
  
"Adam, it may need stitches," she warned as she reached for his left hand. He succeeded in snatching it away before she got hold of it.  
  
"Laura, please . . ." He knew he sounded desperate, and he didn't care.  
  
"Don't be such a baby, Adam. At least let me bandage it for you."  
  
She managed to get a hold of his hand this time, and she shoved it under the running water. By the time she turned his palm up to examine the injury and wash the blood away, the wound had already disappeared. Methos didn't bother stopping her ministrations this time. He didn't need to. The instant she took in the perfectly healed skin on his palm, she went utterly still, and her eyes met his in an expression that could best be described as abject, unimagined horror. The faucet still ran, forgotten in the wake of Laura's discovery.  
  
MacLeod was right, Methos' inner voice declared. Laura is a new Immortal. 


	11. Chapter Ten

Chapter Ten   
  
"You're right, Mac. Laura is a new Immortal."  
  
Dawson's announcement greeted Duncan as he walked through the front door of the tavern. Dawson, the only other occupant, stood behind the bar, wiping down the counter. He tossed his towel aside as Duncan approached, and he pulled a manila file folder from beneath the cash register.  
  
"What made you draw that conclusion?" Duncan queried, his eye on the folder.  
  
"Have a seat, and I'll show you."  
  
Duncan did as Joe requested, removing his coat and laying it over the bar stool next to him. Dawson opened the folder and took out the top sheet of its contents. Duncan found himself face to face with a copy of an old wedding photo. Judging by the dress the bride wore, Duncan guessed that the photo was taken during the early nineteen seventies. Other than that, though, she didn't interest him much. It was the groom who captured his attention. "This is the guy I saw at the hotel yesterday."   
  
"His name's David Burke," said Dawson. "That is . . . or, rather, was . . . his wife Melissa."  
  
"Where did you get this?" Duncan asked, still gawking at the photo.  
  
"One of our researchers up in Vancouver sent it to me," Dawson explained as he handed Duncan the next sheet, "along with this."  
  
It was the front page of an Ohio newspaper, dated twenty-two years ago. Duncan gave it a quick once-over. "Family of four presumed dead as fire destroys Youngstown home." He glanced up at Dawson. "Family of four?" he echoed.  
  
"David Burke had his first death during his stay in a North Vietnamese prison camp. His wife claimed to have given birth to twins just before his release."   
  
"I bet he must not have been too happy to learn he's not the father," Duncan mused.  
  
"No birth records exist, and no adoption records. At least, none the researcher could find."  
  
Duncan's eyebrows shot up. He could tell when Dawson was leading up to something. "Is that so?"  
  
"It was Burke's first teacher who broke the news about Immortals not being able to have children. And no, Burke wasn't exactly thrilled to find out that little piece of news."  
  
"What did he do?"   
  
"Take a lucky guess."  
  
Duncan shook his head. "That wouldn't be the first time an Immortal took his teacher's head."  
  
"The house fire happened the same night," added Joe.  
  
"What's your point?"  
  
"My point is that while Burke would obviously have escaped the fire unharmed, there should have been three other bodies recovered." A dramatic pause. "Firefighters at the scene found nothing. According to the Youngstown Fire Marshal, no one could have escaped that blaze, and it was assumed the bodies of Burke's wife and kids were all burned to ashes."  
  
"And this all has what to do with Laura and Jonathan?"  
  
"Nothing, until this turned up."   
  
Dawson gave Duncan a second front page, this one from a Vancouver paper. And it was much more recent than the first one.  
  
Duncan read the date on the top of the newspaper. "October 25, 1995." He glanced at Dawson. "Yesterday's paper?"  
  
"Check out the top headline," said Joe.  
  
"Two die as car overturns: crash leaves two miraculous survivors." Without any prompting from Dawson, Duncan let his eyes fall on the photograph beneath the headline. Astonished, he looked back up at Joe. "Laura and Jonathan were in that crash, too?"  
  
"Along with someone else you may recognize," said Dawson, pointing at the couple standing behind Laura and Jonathan in the photograph. "Meet Daniel Kessler, one-time Watcher, and his wife Melissa."  
  
Duncan saw it at once. The woman had aged, of course, but the same dark hair, the same eyes . . . there was no mistake about it. "That's Burke's wife!" he exclaimed softly. "How did she . . .?"  
  
His question went unfinished. Dawson replied, "One of our guys spotted Melissa Burke outside Windsor, Ontario, in August of seventy-five. She had two children with her, a girl, about two and a half years old, and a boy, apparently seven months old. He made the connection between those two kids and the twins who supposedly died in the house fire, and a Watcher was assigned to the family immediately."  
  
"Let me guess: Daniel Kessler."  
  
"Right, and it was about a year and a half later that Dan inexplicably left the Watchers, and he, Melissa, and her children dropped from sight."  
  
"Where they stayed until their car crashed," Duncan concluded. "How much of this does Laura remember?"  
  
"My guess is none of it."  
  
Duncan was dumbfounded. "She's right in the middle of it, Joe! How could she not know at least something?"  
  
"The accident." Dawson went on before Duncan had a chance to express his incredulity over that statement. "I read the article, Mac, and it said that Dan's car must have going like the proverbial bat out of hell when it hit a guard rail and rolled over. Jonathan came away unharmed, but Laura experienced massive head and neck injuries. She was declared dead at the scene, but when she revived at the hospital, it was assumed that the equipment the rescue workers used to take Laura's vital signs must have been malfunctioning."  
  
"That still doesn't explain her amnesia."  
  
"Put yourself in her place, Mac. You wake up in a hospital morgue, where all these people are freaking out over you, trying to figure out why you're suddenly alive when you're supposed to be dead. They start poking, prodding, and testing you because they want to make sure they aren't losing their own minds. Add to that the fact that while you survived, your parents, your sole source of support your entire life, won't come back ever . . . man, if that were me, my brain'd shut down, too."  
  
Duncan placed the papers back in the folder and looked Dawson in the eye. "Do you think Burke found out about the accident, and wants to finish what he started back in seventy-three?"  
  
"I wouldn't doubt it."  
  
Duncan stood up rapidly, looping his coat over his arm. "If that's the case," he declared, "then I have to get back to the loft. There's no way we can keep Laura in the dark any longer."  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
The dojo was empty. Duncan expected it to be. Neither Laura nor Methos had any reason to be down here. Still, he had a strange, uneasy feeling which he couldn't ignore.  
  
He turned to Joe, standing next to him. "You didn't have to come along," he said.  
  
Dawson shrugged Duncan's words aside. "Mike can handle the place tonight. Besides, I have to keep an eye on you."  
  
Dawson's Watcher duties were a pretense. "You haven't spoken to her father in twenty some-odd years," Duncan reminded his friend.  
  
"I know. It's just that . . . well, she might take it better if I'm there when you tell her."  
  
"Thanks," said Duncan.  
  
"Don't mention it." The Watcher eyed him carefully. "How do you propose breaking the news?"  
  
The presence of another Immortal washed over him. "I'm working on it, Joe."  
  
Duncan's gaze went immediately to the elevator, which was slowing to a stop as it reached the dojo. He and Dawson watched as Laura lifted the door open with her right hand. She held on to Jonathan's carrier in her left hand, while his diaper bag hung on her left shoulder. The strap of her duffel bag threatened to slip from its position over her right shoulder, and she balanced the bag on her back before reaching for her large suitcase. She wore her denim jacket, and had evidently packed in a hurry. Duncan saw the hilt of her saber sticking out from an opening in the suitcase. She was visibly upset, and Jonathan's crying only added to her already tense air.  
  
"What's wrong?" Duncan asked her.  
  
"I'm leaving," Laura sounded determined, but her tone was laced with a tinge of panic. "I have to get out of here."  
  
"Laura," Duncan began, "there's something we have to tell you first . . ."  
  
The feeling hit again, this time coming from outside. Duncan felt the urge to run out and confront Burke right then and there - who else could it be? - but his attention was instead grabbed by the sight of Laura, who let everything she was carrying fall to the ground as she seized her temples. Jonathan's carrier hit the floor with a soft thud, and Duncan heard the barest sound of something rattling as it fell from one of Laura's bags. "Oh, God," she moaned weakly, "not now . . ."  
  
She collapsed, and Duncan barely had time to catch her before she hit the floor. At the same instant, Methos all but crashed through the dojo's rear entrance. As Duncan guided Laura to the nearest weight bench, he took note of the rust-colored stains on the left cuff of Methos' bulky sweater, as well as the dried-up blood right beneath Methos' nose.  
  
"Laura, wait a minute! I can explain . . ." Methos' voice trailed off, and he stopped dead in his tracks as he registered the scene before him. "Oh," he finished lamely. "Will she be all right?"  
  
"She just sensed you, that's all." Duncan said dryly. "What happened?"  
  
Methos' hand instinctively went up to his nose. "She, uh, hit me. Right after I cut myself." His tone suggested nothing of the sardonic attitude he'd had since Laura and Jonathan came into town. "She really doesn't know she's One of Us."  
  
Duncan had his arm behind Laura, supporting her until she same around. He barely had time to breathe as she shakily got to her feet before she pulled him in front of her, holding him there as if her very life depended on it.  
  
"Keep him away from me, Mac!!" Her deafening scream added to the nerve-wracking wailing Jonathan launched into when he was dropped. Still, Duncan was able to get past the ringing in his ears and realize which "him" Laura was referring to. Fortunately, Methos made no move toward her.   
  
Duncan had to do something. Slowly and deliberately, he drew Laura around until she stood before him, and he tilted her chin up until she was forced to look him in the eye. Methos wisely backed away. "Laura," he tried to tell her, "it's okay."  
  
"What?"  
  
Laura's voice all but broke as it squeaked out that one word, but that one word shouted volumes that betrayed her fragile state of mind. This was not the way Duncan wanted to tell her. He, Dawson, and Methos - if Methos were willing - were supposed to have sat Laura down and calmly explained everything. She was not supposed to be losing it because of whatever stupid thing Methos said or did.  
  
"It's okay," he repeated. "We know."  
  
"Then why didn't you tell me?!" Laura started pacing frantically up and down the width of the room, her arms flailing about as she made wild gestures to the air. She was moving like a whirlwind, and her words tumbled out of her mouth in a mad rush. "If I had known what Adam was sooner, then Jonathan and I could have gone to a church or a synagogue or a Buddhist temple or . . ."  
  
The three men looked at each other. How did she know about holy ground?  
  
Duncan grabbed her by the upper arms and shook her, perhaps more roughly than he should have. "Stop it, Laura!" he yelled. "Stop it!"   
  
She tried to push him away. "Let go of me!" she shrieked.  
  
Duncan lowered his voice, but he still had to find some way to calm her down and get some answers from her. "Not until you tell me, word for word, what your father told you."  
  
He watched the mix of emotions cross her face. So did Methos and Joe, both holding their breaths. Duncan held his, as well, without realizing he was doing it until he heard Laura herself inhale deeply and begin to speak:  
  
"It was when he gave me the sword . . ."  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Montreal, 1989  
  
They were in the living room, Laura and her father. Mom had taken Jonathan with her to the grocery store. Laura wished she were with them now, not standing here cradling her father's birthday present to her. Most kids got cars for their sixteenth birthday. She would've been happy with a new set of drawing pencils. What was her father thinking?  
  
Even as that question occurred to her, Laura found herself transfixed by the gift. The scabbard was in excellent condition, and the saber's hilt was polished so that it gleamed. Laura could not help but be mesmerized by its beauty.  
  
Her father stood in front of her. He seemed nervous, and she could well imagine why. The sword must have cost him a small fortune, probably more than any car. How did he manage to save up enough money to buy it? His salary was barely sufficient for the four of them to live on.  
  
"Be careful when you unsheathe it," he said, a bit uncertainly. "Never touch the sharp end of the blade."  
  
"It's gorgeous, Dad," she heard herself reply, "but why are you giving it to me?"  
  
"You know all those fencing lessons your mom and I have been sending you to?" She nodded, and he went on. "They're so you know how to use a sword. You see, Laura, your brother is special, very special, but he's not unique. Others like him will seek him out and try to hurt him. Use the sword if you have to, for your own sake as well as your brother's. And remember this: no one will touch you on holy ground. It is the one place where you and your brother will truly be safe . . ."  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Seacouver, 1995  
  
By the time she finished her story, Laura was no longer hysterical, but Duncan still picked up on the anxiety in her voice. And her eyes were no longer on him; they stared at some vague spot on the floor.  
  
"I don't know why he included me when he said that," she concluded. "He must have misspoken. Besides, whoever heard of people using swords on each other? It sounds like something right out of William Shakespeare. At any rate, I thought he was making it all up." She cast a resentful, sidelong glance at Methos. "I guess I was wrong."  
  
Duncan loosened his grip on her arms. Thankfully, she didn't try to run again. "Laura," he attempted to explain, "Adam doesn't want to hurt you, or Jonathan. He wants to help you as much as Joe and I do."  
  
"Why?" Laura questioned sharply. "Until yesterday, you didn't even know us."  
  
Said Joe, "We know . . . something about you."  
  
Laura shifted her wary gaze over to Dawson. "What do you know about me?" she ventured timidly. Her voice trembled with every word.  
  
Duncan swallowed hard. "Laura," he said as gently as he knew how, "There's no easy way to tell you this, so I'm just going to say it straight out . . ."  
  
His voice died out the instant her eyes were back on him. Duncan studied her clouded-over expression, and sensed that she was on the verge of making a very difficult decision. Duncan waited tensely, praying she'd make the right one.  
  
Finally, at long last, she did. "Save it, Mac," she replied bitterly. "I'm out of here."  
  
With all the resolution she could muster, Laura walked over to where she left Jonathan and her luggage. All Duncan, Methos, and Joe could do was stand by helplessly and watch. She hoisted the duffel bag over left shoulder, the diaper bag over her right, and reached for the suitcase with her right hand. Her left hand gripped Jonathan's carrier as she headed toward the front entrance.  
  
"Laura, wait!" Duncan called out once he found his voice. "Let me drive you to wherever you're going."  
  
"Forget it," she tossed out behind her, not even bothering to stop. "I'll hail a cab." With that, she was out the door, and Jonathan's cries diminished as the door closed behind her.  
  
The moment the door slammed shut, Duncan turned on Methos, his glare saying more than words ever could. "It was an accident, Mac," Methos claimed, throwing his hands up in front of him. "I swear it!"  
  
Duncan wanted to argue that point, but he never got the chance. Both he and Methos were hit by the arrival of another Immortal. Then, all three men were startled by the sound of gunfire. A woman's scream - Laura's - and they were out the front door. 


	12. Chapter Eleven

Chapter Eleven  
  
With Dawson on their heels, Duncan and Methos flew down the outside stairs, just in time to see Burke finish shoving an unconscious - or, more likely, dead - Laura into the back seat of a light blue Cadillac. Burke took aim over the top of the car and fired off a few more shots in their direction, enough to empty the .38 he was carrying. The first shot was a wide miss, but the rest came close enough that the two Immortals had to duck and Dawson had to dodge back inside, no mean feat for him. Methos and Duncan both realized that even though temporary, mortal death for them would cost Laura and Jonathan their heads.  
  
When he was done with the gun, Burke leapt into the driver's seat of the Cadillac and slammed the driver's side door shut. Shooting at the three men gave him enough time to not only get the brats into the car but to jump in himself, crank up the gas - he congratulated himself on leaving the driver's side door open and the engine running - and take off. He imagined MacLeod and his friends were left in his dust. That thought gave him pause. He didn't know who the second Immortal was, or the guy with the cane. Like they made any difference, he had to remind himself. He had what he came for. He'd take care of MacLeod another time.  
  
Duncan's feet hit the pavement as Burke drove off, and Methos shortly followed. Joe managed to make it about halfway down the steps, and he stopped when the other two did. Methos spat out a curse as the Cadillac turned the corner. What would they do now?  
  
After Burke's car was out of sight, Joe spotted Laura and Jonathan's luggage. It was scattered across the street and sidewalk, Jonathan's empty carrier laying on its side, but that's not what caught the Watcher's eye. He zeroed in on Laura's suitcase, with some of its contents spilling out from it. "Mac," he announced, "her sword's gone."  
  
Duncan ran over to the suitcase and rifled through the various shirts, socks, and baby clothes. He had to see for himself that Dawson was right. Sure enough, there was no sign of the saber or its scabbard. "Do you think Burke grabbed it before getting her?" he asked.  
  
"Probably," was Dawson's reply.  
  
From Methos, "How does he know Laura?"  
  
Duncan was a little surprised at Methos' vehemence. "I'll explain it later. Right now, we need to go find them."  
  
"What's the use?" Methos asked pessimistically. "By the time we do, they'll be dead."  
  
"Maybe not," returned Duncan. "If Burke took Laura's sword . . ."  
  
Dawson finished his statement. "He might be insane enough to let her fight him for her and Jonathan's heads, and egotistical enough to think he can win." He whipped out his cell phone and started punching in numbers. "I'll try and get in touch with Burke's Watcher. He should have some idea where Burke might have taken Jonathan and Laura."  
  
While Dawson was on the phone, Duncan turned to Methos. "Help me get this stuff inside, and we'll conduct our own search."  
  
"What if we don't find them?" Methos queried, reaching for the baby carrier.  
  
Duncan was determined in his response. "Then we'll keep looking. If Burke takes their heads, I'll take his."  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Burke spent considerable time choosing the place where it would happen. The night before, as soon as he dropped the music box off at MacLeod's, he scoured the entire city, looking for just the right spot. He found an abandoned elementary school, complete with playground, about halfway between the dojo and his hotel. Before he committed to that location, though, Burke needed to do a reconnaissance of the entire grounds. The school was in a gang-ridden neighborhood, after all, and who knew what junkie or gang banger would choose it as a hideout? Burke couldn't take the chance of any discovery.  
  
He broke in by way of an obliging first-floor door. Once inside, he gave the room a quick once-over. The school gymnasium. Burke found himself satisfied. This was the perfect spot. The slut's daughter would learn her lesson here. He couldn't believe it. After all this time, justice would be his.   
  
Burke allowed himself a moment or two to reflect on his great fortune in finally obtaining that justice. He had originally planned to stake MacLeod's place out, until MacLeod and the brats emerged. Then. he'd use the gun and take both MacLeod and the girl down. He didn't expect the girl to be foolish and leave MacLeod's protection, or for MacLeod to be stupid enough to let her go, but he didn't question it, either. Like any good soldier, he took advantage of his enemy's poor judgment.  
  
He drove aimlessly around town for a long while, rather than directly to the school, to throw MacLeod and company off the track. He knew full well they would try and follow him. Besides, it was still late morning, and what he had planned was not best left for the harsh daylight, where anybody and everybody could see it.  
  
An hour after sunset, he arrived at the school. It was challenging to keep the girl out of commission that long. He knew she had become a full Immortal when he read the newspaper article. He didn't know about the saber, though, until he saw it sticking out of one of her bags. He was curious where she got it, and had to rework his plans around its presence. Burke spotted the saber sticking out from the suitcase when he collected the girl and her brother. Maybe he would let her live long enough to see him take the boy's head. Maybe he would allow her to fight him before he took hers, as well. He grinned malevolently. The idea had merit.  
  
The boy was light enough to be carried, certainly, but the girl posed a problem. She was heavier than she looked, and was just beginning to stir as he removed her from the back seat. He had to whack her on the head in order to keep her out of commission long enough for him to get her inside the building.  
  
Burke retrieved her sword from the car after he unceremoniously dumped her body on the gymnasium floor. He would let her challenge him, he decided. But not yet. The boy must come first. The brat started crying the second he Burke came into the gymnasium, just as he did when Burke approached him and his sister outside MacLeod's place. The car ride, fortunately, sent the boy into a blissfully soundless slumber. Why start his wailing now?   
  
And then the girl began to move again. Burke estimated it would be another minute at best before she revived. He didn't have much time . . .  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
That baby. She had to get to that baby . . .   
  
The car lay still. Laura couldn't move. The excruciating pain in her head wouldn't go away. And it was in her neck, too. Jonathan! Where was Jonathan? She had to see if he was all right.  
  
She tried to make her arms move. They wouldn't. And her head and neck still hurt like hell. However, a curious numbness had started to spread from her arms to her chest, to her middle, and finally to her legs. Laura was certain her heart was slamming hard inside her chest, but she couldn't feel it. Fear overwhelmed her. The torment became too much to bear.   
  
Through the thick veil of blinding and deafening agony, she started hearing other voices, voices she didn't recognize. And another sound, high-pitched and wailing constantly in her ears. It wasn't human, but Laura thought she should have recognized it.   
  
She heard a man bark orders into some sort of device. She couldn't turn her head to see what it was. "We need an emergency rescue team on Route 99, about half a kilometer south of Pemberton, stat! We have a rollover here. Repeat: we have a rollover!"  
  
She was flat on her back; she could tell that much at least. How did she get there? Somewhere, in the back of her pain-ridden mind, she could see the guard rail as it came closer, closer . . . was that how the car stopped? And where was all that smoke coming from? Where were Mom and Dad?  
  
She opened her mouth. "Muh . . . M-mom . . ."  
  
She barely got the words out before they were on her. "We have another live one here!" the man who barked the orders called out. "Let's get her out before the car blows!"  
  
"M-m-my b-b-bro . . ."  
  
"Shh, don't talk now," the man told her. "We've got him out already. He's okay. He's not even hurt." The man turned to someone next to him. At least, that's what Laura guessed he did. She couldn't see him anymore. It was too dark to see anything. "Get the jaws of life over here! Get the jaws of life over here!!"  
  
Laura heard the grind of metal being cut away. God, it hurt her ears. How she wished she could puts her hands up and block it out! The sound eventually went away, though, and the man's voice came back. "Now, be careful," he commanded to whoever was with him. "Judging by the way she's lying, she's gonna have severe head and neck injuries. We don't want to risk permanent paralysis. On three: one . . . two . . . three!"  
  
Laura felt her body being lifted. She couldn't bear it anymore. She let out a bloodcurdling scream. The sound of it drowned out even Jonathan's wails. Then she heard no more.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
After an hour or so of chasing Burke around town in the Thunderbird, Duncan was well aware that Burke would not deliberately lead him and Methos to whatever destination he had in mind. An hour after that, it also became painfully obvious that Burke was purposefully leading them on, letting them catch up with him only to lose him time and time again. Dawson, meanwhile, met Burke's Watcher at the hotel, where both men had discovered that Burke had checked out that morning. They decided to prowl the city themselves, Burke's Watcher canvassing for sightings of Burke's car, Dawson checking out possible places where Burke might have taken the Kesslers. He ruled out any well-populated venues right away. Such locations were not Burke's style. Besides, Burke had never been to the area before, and wouldn't know of that many suitable places where he could hide his prey. How would Burke handle that?  
  
Dawson received several reports on the Cadillac, thanks to Burke's Watcher. At two o'clock, it was spotted near the baseball stadium. At four-thirty, by the docks. By six, Burke had actually doubled back to the neighborhood of the dojo. That was the last word Dawson had, which he passed along to Duncan and Methos by way of mobile phone. Those two had last seen Burke around five.  
  
For no other reason than to say something, anything, Methos remarked, "Well, he's leading us on a merry chase." When Mac didn't respond, he again lapsed into gloomy silence.  
  
An hour and a half later, they received a final call from Dawson. "Burke's car was seen parked outside an abandoned school a few miles from your place," he informed Duncan.  
  
"How long has it been there?" asked Duncan.  
  
"I don't know yet," replied Joe.  
  
Duncan ended the call, and revved up the T-bird's engine. Hopefully, no cops would be around to witness the speed limits he was about to break.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Just like Dawson said, the Cadillac sat next to the broken-in gymnasium door of an empty elementary school. Dawson met Methos and Duncan in the school's parking lot. He told them, "They're probably inside."  
  
Methos squelched the urge to correct Joe's choice of pronouns, and said instead, "I don't feel anything."  
  
"We may not be close enough to sense them," commented Duncan, in a hushed tone.   
  
"I seriously doubt that Burke's an idiot," argued Methos. "He's not going to park his car and take Laura and Jonathan someplace where he can't carry them. He's got to be close by."  
  
As if on cue, Dawson perked up, his ear cocked to the wind as if listening to something. "Mac," he broke in, "I hear swords."  
  
With that, Methos was off and running. As Duncan stared after him, he too caught the barely audible sound of steel against steel. A fight between Immortals in progress.  
  
By the time Dawson and Mac caught up to him, Methos had reached the perimeter of a neglected playground located on the other side of the deserted school building. There Laura and Burke were, facing off between a rusted set of monkey bars and a child's merry-go-round. Laura's back was to them. Methos looked ready to step forward and stop the fight, but Duncan's hand on his shoulder stayed any movement he might have made. It was too late to interfere.  
  
Laura held her saber tightly in her right hand, and Burke kept a double-handed hold on a menacing-looking broadsword, a weapon that was built for a single-handed grip. Laura brought the saber up in a wide arc to meet Burke's blade, then swiftly deflected his blow away from her. Duncan couldn't help but take note of the way she handled her weapon. He mentally blessed whoever taught her the difference between a comparatively lightweight fencing foil and the heavier saber. Hopefully, those lessons would serve her now.  
  
A pause in the fighting. "Well, well, my dear," Burke cooed in a voice full of venom, "you're doing quite well. You should consider yourself lucky I'm allowing you a chance to fight me."  
  
Laura swung at Burke's head, but blindly, and without any apparent intention of taking it. In response, Burke neatly blocked her blow and forced her sword down, trapping it with his own. Laura moved her own blade so that it glided along Burke's, and sparks flew out from the contact point between the two weapons. "Where's Jonathan?" hissed Laura. "What have you done with him?"  
  
Burke retreated until he stood behind the merry-go-round, keeping it between himself and Laura. "What do you think I've done with him?" he questioned smoothly, as if the whole situation entertained him immensely.  
  
"You tell me," Laura demanded.  
  
He made a run for the jungle gym, in the far right corner of the playground, Laura hot on his heels. Using his left hand, Burke pulled himself up the jungle gym's façade. "Let me tell you a story, instead. I knew your mother once upon a time. We were married, in fact. But she betrayed me. She told me that the two of you were mine. Our kind can't have children, you know."  
  
During his little speech, Burke's sword jabbed repeatedly at Laura, one time coming in contact with her sword arm. She instinctively grabbed at the wound with her free hand. "I tried to exact justice once, but I failed." He jumped from the jungle gym, intent on pressing his advantage, but Laura managed to duck his blow. Burke fell back briefly. "Too bad I was not yet aware of what you and your brother would become. Otherwise, things would have been much different."  
  
Once she came back up, Laura aimed a thrust at Burke's upper left arm. The sharp edge of her blade sliced cleanly across his shoulder, and Burke grunted in pain. His eyes glittered with anger at having been bested, at least for the moment, but he recovered quickly. "Very good, my dear," he crooned maliciously, "but do you think you can defeat me?"  
  
"Do you want to find out?" she retorted, every word coming out in an low, deadly growl.  
  
"Perhaps I do." Burke's overconfidence was so obvious, he might as well have been advertising it on television. "After all, you're One of Us now."  
  
"One of who?" Laura, meanwhile, displayed nothing short of disgust and barely concealed fury for her opponent. "What are you talking about?"  
  
"Oh, yes. You don't remember that, do you?" Burke circled Laura, holding her at sword's point as he slowly inched to his right, toward a crooked swing set. His arrogant stance screamed the fact the he was clearly in his element. "At least, that's what I've heard."  
  
An image flashed across Laura's mind: a brown Chevy, all twisted and mangled, her lying on her back trying vainly to move, the sound of a baby crying . . . she shook her head to chase the images away. Burke observed her closely, and he was able to guess what she was seeing.  
  
"Then again," he added thoughtfully, "Maybe you do remember, after all, and just don't want to admit it."  
  
Burke slowly closed his left hand back around the hilt of his sword. He definitely intended to go in for his final strike. "As for your brother, my dear, let me tell you about him." He waited for Laura to show a response to that statement; she didn't. "I killed him. Twice. The first time, when you were both seven months old."  
  
Laura's eyes narrowed into barely distinguishable slits. "And the second?"  
  
"I should have waited until you were alive again for that." Burke's gaze was overflowing with the intense satisfaction he was clearly feeling. "It would have done you good to see me take your brother's head."  
  
Enraged, Laura broke loose, with a ferocity that stunned her entire audience. She lunged, thrusted, and swung, continually advancing on Burke as she drove him round one leg of the swing set and back toward the merry-go-round. He dodged, parried, blocked, but to no avail. No defensive move he made could have prepared him for the outcome of Laura's wrath. She had become a raging virago.  
  
Before anyone had the chance to take a breath, Laura had Burke backed against the bars of the merry-go-round, utterly defenseless. A quick swipe of her blade, and he was on his knees, a vicious gash in his belly. A second swipe, and he was unarmed. Burke was at her mercy.  
  
"Do it!!" he commanded. "Do what I did to your precious little Jonathan!"  
  
"If you insist." Laura's voice was devoid of any emotion. It sounded cold, distant . . . and resolute. She didn't see her opponent in front of her; she saw herself, lying on a gurney, with at least half a dozen hospital staff members staring down at her, amazed that she had come back to life. She heard her father's words, telling her to use the sword if she had to, to protect herself as well as Jonathan. And this . . . this . . . this thing . . . she couldn't finish that thought. She closed her left hand slowly and purposefully around her right, which still clutched her saber as if her life depended on it. Which, in fact, it did. She lifted the saber high in the air . . .  
  
For the breadth of a second, she paused. Then, one single swoop later, Burke's body slumped back against the merry-go-round, his head rolling to a sickening stop a few feet away. It was done.  
  
Laura gaped wide-eyed at her victim's body, then turned her eyes up to face her audience. She must have known they were there. She had to at least have sensed Duncan and Methos as they ran up. But only when she focused her attention on them did Duncan realize that she wasn't aware of them at all until that moment. Duncan watched as her gaze, now filled with a strange sort of confusion, travel from Dawson to him, finally falling on Methos. It was then that the enormity of what she had done began to overcome her.  
  
Unobserved at first, a ghostly, pale blue fog began to emerge from Burke's headless corpse. It enveloped Laura as a deafening hum rose up from out of nowhere. A strong gale blew up and surrounded her, jerking her body upright. Helpless, she threw her arms outward, her saber waving precariously in her right hand. Blue and white bolts of lightning streaked down and stuck every point of her. She screamed in glorious pain.  
  
As Duncan looked on, Methos and Dawson with him, he tried hard to visualize what was going through Laura's mind. He couldn't fathom it, either, when he had his first Quickening. But that was different. He knew it was. The old hermit, when Duncan refused to do the honors for him, used Duncan's sword to cut off his own head. Laura, succumbing to the rage that welled inside her, had willfully taken a life.  
  
A minute or so later, everything had died down, and Laura was left in a huddled mass on the ground. Her right hand, however, still retained a death grip on the hilt of her saber. She used a bar on the merry-go-round to pull herself up, sticking the point of her saber in the dirt before weakly hauling her body into something resembling a standing position.  
  
Methos was the first to reach her, and the one to be stopped by the point of her sword aimed directly at his chin. "Don't," she warned him, her voice coming out in labored gasps. He took a step closer, and her blade pricked his chin. "Don't," she repeated, "come near me."  
  
That said, she turned her back to them and walked away, her saber trailing behind her. Duncan watched as it eventually fell, forgotten, from her slackened fingers. Not one of the three men - Duncan, Methos, or Joe - made a move to go after her, but Methos showed every sign of wanting to. "Let her go," Duncan said softly. "She needs to come to terms with it in her own way."  
  
"I know." Methos' voice sounded far away. "I know." 


	13. Chapter Twelve

Chapter Twelve: "Put out the light, and then put out the light . . ."  
  
- Othello, Act V, scene ii, line 7  
  
The coffee was ready. Duncan filled a cup and set it on the coffee table in front of Methos, but the older man just sat there on the sofa, elbows propped on his knees, chin resting on his clasped hands, staring off into space. Duncan doubted Methos' mind was even in the room. Was he regretting not going after Laura when she walked off the playground? Or did his thoughts center on the accident that resulted in Laura and Jonathan's flight from the loft and into Burke's hands? Duncan had seen the shattered glass and dried-up orange juice on the floor as soon as he stepped off the elevator. When he cleaned up the mess, Duncan was tempted to ask Methos how it got there, but he doubted he'd get an answer.  
  
Duncan worried about Laura, too. The strange pall that had come over her after Burke's Quickening disturbed him deeply. Perhaps Methos was right to want to stop her from leaving. Why did she walk away? At first, Duncan thought that she might be looking for her brother. A fruitless search, he knew, though he couldn't bring himself to go inside the school and confirm what Burke had said about Jonathan. Too, Laura left her sword behind. Dawson had assured Duncan that no other Immortals save himself, Methos, and Richie were in the area, and had promised to have Richie keep an eye out for her. That assurance did nothing to assuage Duncan's fears about Laura. She was still at her most vulnerable now.  
  
He poured himself some coffee and settled down in his high-backed leather chair. It would be another sleepless night.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Laura didn't notice the odd looks she got from the passerby who crossed her path. Truth be told, even if she had, she didn't give a damn. She absently reached for the gaping hole her opponent left in her right jacket sleeve, her fingers numbly touching the dried blood that clung there, but strangely enough, there was no fresh blood, and she felt no pain from her injury. That brought her up short. Laura stopped in her tracks, and her hand immediately dropped from her arm. Something was not right, she realized with a start. Her sense of touch must be off. She might even be in shock. She ought to go to the hospital and have herself looked at. She didn't want to lose any more of her senses. No, she should just march right into the nearest emergency room and . . .   
  
No, she shouldn't. What would the doctors say when they saw her? They'd know what she'd done, just like that. She knew they would, and she couldn't bear their knowing. She couldn't bear knowing it herself.   
  
So, she continued to walk. She didn't pay attention to where she was going. She didn't care. What was the use? It was too late.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Joe returned home and threw his keys on the nearest flat surface. He hated nights like this, he really did. And this one was the worst he could think of. Not only did he and Burke's Watcher have to take care of Burke's remains, but there was also the discovery Burke's Watcher made when they checkd out the inside of the school. When he saw it, Joe was sorely tempted to toss the contents of his stomach the way he just tossed his keys. Burke's Watcher, a rookie in the field, actually did.  
  
He caught sight of his waiting laptop computer and sighed heavily. He had a couple more things to do before he vainly attempted sleep. He booted up the computer, accessed the Watcher database, and opened Jonathan's file. Chloe Young had said she would create files for him and Laura. Joe dreaded adding this entry more than anything else he'd had to do.  
  
"Final report on Jonathan Kessler. Jonathan met his end at approximately 7:15 P.M. Mountain Time, 26 October 1995. The victor was David Burke, who soon lost his own head to Jonathan's twin sister Laura."  
  
He sat back for a moment or two. It was not enough, those two simple sentences. Something else needed to be said.  
  
"David Burke's actions are something I'll never understand. What kind of sick bastard murders a child? Jonathan Kessler was an infant, and would have remained so as long as he was alive. More than that, he was the one true innocent among Immortals, the one who could never, ever kill. Burke inflicted enough suffering on him, his sister, and his mother when he took Jonathan's mortal life away from him. The result was a kind of Immortality that no one deserves, a life halted before he could develop to the point where he would be able to walk, talk, and use a weapon in his own defense. Burke saw to it that Jonathan Kessler would never live up to his potenial. At least the son of a bitch got what he deserved in the end. Laura Kessler made sure of that.   
  
"But at what cost?"  
  
Joe read the still-too-brief report over one more time before deciding it would have to suffice. He added it to Jonathan's file and closed out the network. He sat back in his chair for a moment before picking up his cell phone.   
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Vancouver  
  
Chloe decided to give her Watcher e-mail one last check before heading off to bed. Her boss back east hadn't contacted her yet, though he said he would, and she was more than eager to leave Vancouver. Perhaps, she thought, she should go ahead and schedule her own return flight, rather than wait for the organization to do it for her. It's not like she had anything left to do here.  
  
Nothing from her boss. Oh well. She punched a few keys, typing a quick message to him to let him know that she was available for a new assignment.   
  
Her cell phone chirped just as she finished her post. "Hello?" she said into the receiver the second she had it to her mouth.  
  
"Chloe Young? It's Joe Dawson again."  
  
"Oh." She turned off her laptop and snapped the lid shut. "I was just about to head off for bed. What can I do for you?"  
  
"I thought you should know. Burke's dead."  
  
"What?" Chloe nearly dropped her phone. She sent up a prayer that Dawson wouldn't take too much note of her reaction to his news..  
  
"Burke's dead," Dawson repeated. "Kessler took his head."  
  
"You mean Laura Kessler, right?" Obviously, Chloe reminded herself before Dawson felt the need to. No baby could ever be strong enough to lift a sword, let alone cut off someone's head. "But I thought . . ."  
  
"That she didn't know she was Immortal?" She heard Dawson sigh. "Burke brought it on himself, practically demanded that she take his head. So she did."  
  
"What about the brother?"  
  
A pregnant pause on the other end of the line. "Burke got to him first. I took care of the final report."  
  
"I see. Thanks for letting me know."  
  
After a perfunctory goodbye, she ended the call. Her mind was already on what she needed to do the next morning. The first thing on her list was to check the database for what Dawson had entered. The second was to add her own thoughts on the state of Burke's mind into his file. Not that she would ever have condoned what Burke did, or done it herself if she were in his shoes, but she understood well his reasons for doing it. He felt betrayed by the woman he loved. And Chloe could relate to that kind of betrayal.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Seacouver  
  
Five-thirty in the morning. Dawn would be coming soon. Still, no sign of Laura. Duncan hoped she would come back. Part of him actually expected her to. Her things were still here, after all. Besides, she had nowhere else to go.  
  
He had drained the coffee pot hours ago, washed it, and put it away. He also brought Laura's bags up from the dojo office, where he and Methos had secured them the day before, and returned her saber - Duncan had been the one to collect that from the playground - to its spot in her suitcase. Methos, on the other hand, still sat on the couch, his coffee untouched before him. Duncan didn't have the heart to take it away, even thought the beverage had long since cooled. How could he? It was the one object which Methos had finally acknowledged. Some time after two, he caught Methos gazing at it as if it were the center of his universe. Duncan acknowledged it would be a waste of time to try and shake Methos out of his stupor.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
As the night wore on, the streets had begun to slowly empty until the few people who were still out and about in the wee hours of the morning had themselves drifted off, seeking the shelter of their own homes, and she was left alone. Not that Laura had noticed the gradual thinning of the streets, or how the starless sky was just starting to lose its darkness. She merely continued to walk, unseeing, up and down whatever hard surface found itself beneath her shoes.  
  
Her eyes began to blur, and she blinked hard to ward the blurriness away. She came to a deserted street corner, where she leaned against a dilapidated brick warehouse. The bluriness chose that moment to come back, and she closed her eyes even harder against it. When she opened them again, they focused themselves on the signs posted on a nearby telephone pole. The top one was a notice put up by someone looking for a lost dog, the second an advertisement for the play Othello. The third one, a bright pink rectangle that jumped out from the steely gray of the impending dawn, seized Laura's attention with its simple, two-word message, hand written in bold, black letters:  
  
Find God.  
  
Laura blinked her eyes again - why wouldn't that blurring go away? - and raised them heavenward. All she saw were the clouds rolling over the ever-lightening sky.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Duncan had dozed off in the leather chair. When he awoke, it was with the pain of a cramped neck. He sat up, rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, and gave his head a vigorous shake to clear the rest of the sleepiness from his mind. With one hand, he tried to massage the cramp from his neck as his eyes registered the sight of Methos packing, stuffing everything he had into the black duffel bag he brought with him.  
  
"I know what you're going to say," Methos stated, without bothering to turn around. "You're going to try to convince me that helping them out was not a big mistake."  
  
Duncan let his hand fall to the arm of the chair. "It wasn't."  
  
"For you, maybe. For me, let's just say that I should've left when I had the chance."  
  
Duncan got to his feet and headed toward the window. A dismal gray haze was beginning to light up the skyline.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
The gray surrounded her. She felt the intense weight of it as it pressed down on her. Such would be her lot now, she supposed, to go through life with nothing but colorlessness. Colorlessness and emptiness. There was nothing left for her anymore.  
  
It was a waste, all of it.  
  
She found herself on some bridge. This must be the one the hotel clerk told her about, the one where they found that headless body three years ago. The monster who committed that murder, though, had yet to be brought to justice, according to the clerk. At the time, Laura believed the story a bizarre local legend, or, at the very least, some twisted tall tale the girl told anyone who looked gullible enough to fall for it. Yeah, right. Some legend.  
  
She stopped about midpoint and leaned over the railing. How nice it might be, if she only leaned out a little farther. The water wouldn't be cold for very long . . .  
  
A vision flashed before her eyes: instead of the water, she saw below her a rock-filled ravine. Laura squeezed her eyes tight, and when she opened them again, the illusion was gone. But the memory of it stayed with her. The ravine looked so familiar. Where did it come from?  
  
Laura pulled her wallet from her jacket pocket and took out of it a wallet-sized photograph. It was of her, Jonathan, and her mother and father. Dad had insisted that a family portrait be taken every year. He even put the photos in a journal he kept, one which he never allowed anyone else to read. He gave the journal to Laura right before the accident. He said it would help her understand. Understand what, she never asked. The journal was still in her suitcase. The suitcase she left at MacLeod's loft.  
  
She stared at the photo for some time, then flung it out on the water below.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Duncan and Methos stood, uneasily silent, in the elevator. Duncan wanted to say something, anything, that would persuade Methos that the Kesslers were not a total loss, but no words came to him. The elevator stopped when it reached the dojo, and Duncan opened the door, allowing Methos, duffel bag in hand, to step off. He followed suit, and allowed the door to fall shut behind him.  
  
"You don't need to leave," Duncan told him.  
  
"I have to get out of town for a while," responded Methos. "What if she decides I'm to blame for what happened?"  
  
"You had no control over that."  
  
"Didn't I?" Methos countered derisively. "I could have trusted her, could have done something to stop Burke from . . ."  
  
Methos' voice trailed off as his eye fell on something lying under a weight bench. He dropped his duffel bag, stooped over, and picked the object up. He remained squatting there, studying Jonathan's rattle as if it were the rarest artifact.  
  
"It must have fallen out of the diaper bag yesterday," Duncan offered.  
  
"Its been said that a baby can turn any sane man into a babbling idiot." Methos' eyes never left the rattle. "And look at what one who is . . . was . . . Immortal has done."  
  
Duncan couldn't ignore the faraway, wistful tone of the older man's voice. "You'll learn to come to terms with Jonathan's death. We all will."  
  
"I'm not thinking of that." Methos was clearly lying, even if only to save face. "It's just a colossal waste. Do you realize what we could have learned from him?"  
  
"We still can. Through Laura."  
  
Methos slowly stood up until his eyes met MacLeod's. "If you don't mind," he remarked flatly, "I'd rather not be around for the lesson."  
  
"You can't run away, Methos. You'll have to face her sooner or later, whether she wants your head or not."  
  
"MacLeod, I have enough demons to face without taking on another one."   
  
"Too late," Duncan announced as they felt the approach of another Immortal. "You've got no choice now."  
  
Methos hastily shoved the rattle into his coat pocket just as Laura appeared in the doorway, her jacket draped over her tightly crossed arms. Her ashen pallor and blank stare perfectly matched the overcast sky outside.  
  
She stood in the doorway for a second or two, then started to cross the floor, each step slow and ponderous, as if she dreaded taking them. Her gaze took on a searching quality as she came nearer. About half the distance away, she stopped. Duncan saw her eyes flick from Methos to him and back again. She desperately wanted to ask how and why her life had suddenly been turned upside-down, but she didn't speak. She didn't even open her mouth to try and frame the words. She let her expression speak for her.  
  
Laura and Methos stared at each other for a long moment. What is this, Duncan wondered, a bizarre sort of staring contest? If so, then Methos came away the loser. He let his eyes drop to the floor as he turned his head away.   
  
Methos didn't see the stricken look that briefly flashed across Laura's face. "Come one, Laura," Duncan said, walking up to her and holding out his hand. "We have a lot to talk about." 


End file.
